
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Monterey Bay Aquarium
YOU ARE THE REASON

@theartofmadeline
ojovivo
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Janaina Medeiros
almost home
Mike Driver
Peter Solarz

if i look back, i am lost

Origami Around

ellievsbear
Game of Thrones Daily
we're not kids anymore.
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@subwaypoems
“Self-care is often a very unbeautiful thing.
It is making a spreadsheet of your debt and enforcing a morning routine and cooking yourself healthy meals and no longer running from your problems and calling the distraction a solution.
It is often doing the ugliest thing that you have to do, like sweat through another workout or tell a toxic friend you don’t want to see them anymore or get a second job so you can have a savings account or figure out a way to accept yourself so that you’re not constantly exhausted from trying to be everything, all the time and then needing to take deliberate, mandated breaks from living to do basic things like drop some oil into a bath and turn your phone off for the day.
A world in which self-care has to be such a trendy topic is a world that is sick. Self-care should not be something we resort to because we are absolutely so exhausted that we need some reprieve from our own relentless internal pressure.
True self-care is not salt baths and chocolate cake, it is making the choice to build a life you don’t need to regularly escape from.”
- @stephanieelauren on Instagram
Playlists for the Signs // GEMINI
bitter pill / gavin james
freak / lana del rey
gemini feed / banks
valley of the dolls / marina and the diamonds
two evils / bastille
you should know where i’m coming from / banks
the devil’s tears / angus and julia stone
the sighting / a fine frenzy
lost / kris allen
nicotine / panic! at the disco
In other languages you are beautiful – mort, muerto – I wish I spoke moon, I wish the bottom of the ocean were sitting in that chair playing cards and noticing how famous you are on my cell phone – picture of your eyes guarding your nose and the fire you set by walking, picture of dawn getting up early to enthrall your skin – what I hate about stars is they’re not those candles that make a joke of cake, that you blow on and they die and come back, and you, you’re not those candles either, how often I realize I’m not breathing, to be like you or just afraid to move at all, a lung or finger, is it time already for inventory, a mountain, I have three of those, a bag of hair, box of ashes, if you were a cigarette I’d be cancer, if you were a leaf, you were a leaf, every leaf, as far as this tree can say
Bob Hicok, “Elegy owed,” Elegy Owed (via lifeinpoetry)
“Some nights I put on my father’s chalk outline and I teach it how to walk.”
Siaara Freeman, “The Drug Dealer’s Daughter”
Congratulations to Siaara on topping 500,000 views on this amazing poem.
(via buttonpoetry)
We have supernovas in our chests Where our hearts should be.
Time
We are more than the hopes and fear of our forefathers. We are more than lost causes tied to the sinking ships of age old dreams. We are living and breathing and thriving. We are the present, forever moving forward to become the past.
We are movement. We are the certainty of progression tied to the uncertainty which accompanies existence. We are birth and death and everything in between. We are the future, made present, made past.
We will one day be forefathers, casting our dying dreams and lost causes upon a new generation. We will one day be forefathers, the past walking the earth, waiting to be swept aside by the hopes and fears of a present that is quickly becoming the past.
Things Written Too Late at Night
My body is the canvas upon which you have written yourself Spiraling words leaving blood to drip down pale skin Pale.
You have always said I was pale.
I am not a sunshine sort of girl. I am not the girl who seeps into your life Whose touch you lean into like warmth. I am three in the morning, Curled on the bathroom floor as the tile saps body heat.
There is more gray in my hair than when we first met Punctuation. Interruption. A comma for every fight we have had. Every cross word that has erupted from my mouth. There is gray in my hair for every three am curled On the cold bathroom floor. Pale skin on pale tile.
You have always said I was pale.
My body is the canvas upon which you have carved yourself Written your existence into my essence until there was no separation Between who I am and who you have made. Between who I am and who you were.
You do not understand Ophelia because you don’t understand her helplessness. There is no beauty in being pushed until broken In having your voice stripped from you until you have no choice but to echo back pretty words, pretty phrases, pretty face Platitudes, strung along like pearls on a string.
You do not understand, you do not pity Ophelia because you have fought too long, too hard You have overcome the death and decay that forced her to her knees and sucked the sanity from her soul Leaving her the hollow memory of a girl, the afterthought of a dream you once had.
You despise Ophelia because you despise her helplessness. Her weakness Her status as a victim to the men in her life. The father who tied her down, the lover who drove her away, the brother who avenged her Too late in his realization that she was something to be valued to save her from himself.
You do not understand Ophelia because you don’t want to. You want to forget your helplessness Hide it behind sharp words, memory disguised as contempt Perhaps I am wrong and you hate Ophelia because her helplessness resonates in your bones, a reminder of being alone And scared
And helpless.
portrait of rosalie
my grandmother devours photo albums like Tolstoy novels, mémoire aprés mémoire aprés mémoire. she tells me the same story about her first job without a car five times over, looking away to another world, black & white to me, but full-color to her. alzheimer’s is a language. like french, it is just another part of her. she does not remember conversations from a week ago or to turn over laundry, but she remembers bus rides in the south, pre-1964, white weddings in grey cathedrals that are shopping malls now. i have learned to translate her repetition, the ways she can tell the same memory again and again like it is the first time. for this, too, is language: the new inflections in her voice, new details, the tears that frequent her glassy eyes like uninvited guests she lets in anyway my grandmother’s alzheimer’s is a neologist, changes the way we communicate now. trauma is passed through generations like hand-me-down clothes. c'est héréditaire. my grandmother’s tears are my mother’s tears are mine. she tells me it will all be history soon, still-frames in the movies of our lives. tout sera histoire. tout sera histoire. tout sera histoire. mon enfant, attend et regarde. “my child, wait and see.”
I spent like 15 hours on this.
*impressed slow clap*
This was ridiculously pleasing to read out loud.
This is a legitimately fine poem. I say so with my BA in English and Philosophy and my PhD. It’s DAMN HARD to write something like this. Be impressed, yo.
I want to write a love poem for the girls I kissed in seventh grade, a song for what we did on the floor in the basement of somebody’s parents’ house, a hymn for what we didn’t say but thought: That feels good or I like that, when we learned how to open each other’s mouths how to move our tongues to make somebody moan. We called it practicing, and one was the boy, and we paired off—maybe six or eight girls—and turned out the lights and kissed and kissed until we were stoned on kisses, and lifted our nightgowns or let the straps drop, and, Now you be the boy: concrete floor, sleeping bag or couch, playroom, game room, train room, laundry. Linda’s basement was like a boat with booths and portholes instead of windows. Gloria’s father had a bar downstairs with stools that spun, plush carpeting. We kissed each other’s throats. We sucked each other’s breasts, and we left marks, and never spoke of it upstairs outdoors, in daylight, not once. We did it, and it was practicing, and slept, sprawled so our legs still locked or crossed, a hand still lost in someone’s hair … and we grew up and hardly mentioned who the first kiss really was—a girl like us, still sticky with moisturizer we’d shared in the bathroom. I want to write a song for that thick silence in the dark, and the first pure thrill of unreluctant desire, just before we’d made ourselves stop.
“Practicing”, Marie Howe (via tejanx)
I only write poetry when I'm depressed. This is something I learned recently when I found that words So absent for so long Were rattling through my mind again in a desperate attempt to be heard. The two am bar crawl of my soul Scrawled across the tattered edges of my brain Like the peanuts in the bottom of the wooden bowl on the counter where you're resting your head.
I only write when there's a coldness in my chest that booze or pills -or booze and pills- Can't warm until sunshine days thaw the spot completely Or the heat of your body, pressed to mine like you're actually the sheets I've tangled myself into White cotton and half a days pay sunk into what I tell myself is an investment into my future.
Our future.
The future I'm fighting to actualize with every espresso shot dumped into the drink of some lawyer who may or may not bother throwing me a dollar. And I want to scream that all of my dreams are wrapped up in being on the other side of the counter. That I was a prodigy who just wants to go to law school That the depression that is eating it's way through my chest ate it's way through my aspirations and motivations and my will to wash my hair.
I'm sorry. I know it's greasy and I probably look like I haven't showered in a few days. I've been distracted by the hole in my chest and the words that are carving themselves from a place I thought I had left. I don't expect you to understand But these words are my apology and my plea for patience. They're the promise that I am working towards our future, even when that future is smoothing your hair back from your face in the bathroom stall of some seedy bar. That is your bar crawl. This is mine.
It is so cliche to talk about my mental health In terms of upwards and downwards spikes. It is cliche to talk about wasting the good days waiting for the bad days, and how the bad days never seem to end, but always do.
I’m tired of cliche.
I want to talk about mental health in terms of playing putput with my partner, When we’re both awful and miss all of the holes. In terms of cooking in the sunshine of the early morning, fresh sage from the plants in the windowsill I want to talk about my mental health in terms of books finished and shelved away and pictures hung on the wall.
In terms of crying in the school library. In letters written and never sent. Their words stenciled across my skin in silver paint, screaming to be read. In messages that were a plea for help, waiting for weeks without a response.
I want to talk about my mental health in terms of the people I have lost. Those who were toxic that I cut from my life, Those I drove away. Text messages at four in the morning too much, too late. But somehow not enough for them to stay.
My mental state is a garden in a world where the seasons are fickle Changing too quickly Where the garden dies and is reborn on a weekly if not daily basis. I want to talk about my mental health in terms of roses and succulents and basil. Fragile but ever growing.
i. hey i heard that you’re actually somewhere good now and not thinking about me but remember when we ii. oh! hi, it’s so crazy to see you out here in the world, i’m good, i’ve been living and i don’t cry into my ice cream at three in the morning and iii. about all those voicemails and those text messages, i was drunk - no i was high - no i was uh i was honestly just sad and missing you not that i miss you because iv. long time no see, did you even feel anything when you broke me v. it’s been a long time since we spoke, right? we’re both adults and let’s be honest we have two different lives and two different hearts and now you barely know anything about me except the things i’m still trying to change because i don’t want you to be any part of me i mean vi. the world’s a small place and here we are, occupying the same train, is it fate vii. hey i heard that you’re doing well but honestly i don’t know what to say to you because you put me through hell.
practicing in the mirror for conversations that won’t occur pt 1 // r.i.d (via inkskinned)
i love like a religion
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