#atticus hope

[theoccasionaloracle]

Whenever I submit a poem to a journal I start vibrating like I’ve had too much coffee. Why is it scary as hell. It’s a digital form, that’s not intimidating.

[ask-jupiter-academy]

ASK BOX: OPEN!

[theoccasionaloracle]

Oh Sappho…. We’re really in it now.

[theoccasionaloracle]

Italy inspires a certain something in my soul, and the fact I’m holding and washing almost three thousand year old pottery is making it worse. as poetic as I could get about holding something someone once held dear or used every day, first I need to complain about doing their dishes for them.

[theoccasionaloracle]

sometimes existence and proving you lived comes down to penning letters to girls you love across the continent and hoping they keep the flowers you press for them and the leaves you dry for them because someone once told you that they could see you in the leaves and you want her to think of you always.

aaaaand then sometimes it’s drinking so much caffeine that you stay up all night scratching your due dates into your notebook and agenda and journals until your pen runs dry and you have to uncap the ink bottle to refill it and use a new ink you bought at a sweet little shop that you fell in love with because writing with nice things is always worth it.

but other times it’s breathing in hot steam from your tea that’s still too hot and wondering when it’ll start raining again and being grey outside again and you can wear sweaters again without counting each dollop of sweat rolling down your back and tracing it’s cold fingers over your ribcage under your clothes.

and other times you mourn people you’ve never known. and other times you worry your love and the way it feels is not enough. and other times your pick the polish off your fingernails because you’re losing your mind. and other times you clasp and unclasp your bracelet one hundred times just to hear it click.

[theoccasionaloracle]

lounging around drunk in the Southern Italian sunshine listening to IDKHOW and daydreaming about satin dresses on beautiful women and how I might write poetry about the way they move

[theoccasionaloracle]

Oh but what if we were made for each other but not in the way lovers are but in the way predator and prey who get trapped in the same pocket of air amidst a disaster together are?

[theoccasionaloracle]

I want to be looked at and cherished like an old book is- held so gently and with a home of my own on the shelf; tenderly held and stories read like they are worthwhile and beautiful, important; my exterior treated with care and valued for its creation and evidence of the aesthetics of another time; the typeface and word choice not seen as strange simply because it is different; worn and soft around the edges because I am read and enjoyed, but no less loved for being any less pristine.