keep heart

"scrivere con l'amore e l'amore ti troverà" - write with love and love will find you.

[fuckyeahabandonedplaces]

nooteboom by bra3nnvin on Flickr.

[scrivereamore]

How to be: You have to be something. Our atoms are intertwined to create who we are. Skin, veins and poems that are beautiful. We are suppose to unravel one another until we find something wonderful about ourselves. Please read as many poems you need to and tear as much skin as needed until you do not feel as if you are just skin and bones.

[sharksdonthavescales]

My heart bleeds black blood for the monster.

Robert Lowell, from “Florence” (via sharksdonthavescales)

[mooneyedandglowing]

God, that old furnace, keeps talking with his mouth of teeth, a beard stained at feasts, and his breath of gasoline, airplane, human ash. His love for me feels like fire, feels like doves, feels like river-water. At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind and helpless. While the Lord lives. Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone. I’ve had enough of his love that feels like burning and flight and running away.

Li-Young Lee, from This Hour and What is Dead (via mooneyedandglowing)

[fuhzzie]

[scrivereamore]

I don't want to die without you.

The most selfish thing I have ever thought.

[scrivereamore]

Never give your heart to someone who only wants to eat you from the inside out. 

[writerswritecompany]

Where writers write

Vita Sackville-West’s Writing Tower

This writing room is located in the Elizabethan Tower at Sissinghurst Castle in Kent. It’s surrounded by the world-famous, romantic garden and was where Vita Sackville-West (close friend of Virginia Woolf) did most of her writing. 

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

"friend"

[scrivereamore]

We all die alone so don't even think about trying to save me from myself. When I die, I will die and there is nothing you can do about it.

S.C

[itslatingirl]

[benjaminjayshand]

interior

[scottiehughes]

Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect, and touch, and greet each other.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet (via scottiehughes)

[helleah]

[red-foxies-blog]

[scrivereamore]

Her body is a graveyard. She greets vandals and gravediggers with a timid smile as their hearts turn to stone. The tiny flowers wilt and decay as her thoughts swell to a heavy blackness. Her body has met the devil. His poison is the blood in her veins.

S.C

[lifeinpoetry]

As though touching her might make him known to himself, as though his hand moving over her body might find who he is, as though he lay inside her, a country his hand’s traveling uncovered, as though such a country arose continually up out of her to meet his hand’s setting forth and setting forth. And the places on her body have no names. And she is what’s immense about the night. And their clothes on the floor are arranged for forgetfulness.

Li-Young Lee, “Dwelling” (via lifeinpoetry)

[unhexx]

"…it was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me - said all at once"

Lang Leav