#literary shit

[yourmotherfuckingnightmare]

Doodling on my notes Makes me wanna Make poem about you What the fuck was that? How powerful of you? You make me think, Think only about you This weak mind…

~ Mary B.S. - Seasons Of Love

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[yourmotherfuckingnightmare]

Seasons Of Love available on Amazon! https://a.co/d/gGQS4MY

[yourmotherfuckingnightmare]

[a-just-architect]

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and fall and rise again.  I am a poet, yes.  Surely I am a great poet.  Boats and youth passing and distant trees, "the falling fountains of the pendant trees".  I see it all.  I feel it all.  I am inspired.  My eyes fill with tears.  Yet even as I feel this.  I lash my frenzy higher and higher.  It foams.  It becomes artificial, insincere.  Words and words and words, how they gallop - how they lash their long manes and tails, but for some fault in me I cannot give myself to their backs; I cannot fly with them, scattering women and string bags.  There is some flaw in me - some fatal hesitancy, which, if I pass it over, turns to foam and falsity.  Yet it is incredible that I should not be a great poet.  What did I write last night if it was not poetry?  Am I too fast, too facile?  I do not know.  I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.

‘The Waves’, Virginia Woolf being her usual, utterly devastating self and managing to put into words how it feels to be a young person becoming aware of the fact that just because one is human and is therefore able to feel all that being human entails, doesn’t mean that one necessarily has the talent to put all that feeling onto the page.  

[a-just-architect]

There's great delight in weeping - when nothing's wrong.

Willian Gager, 'Dido'

[a-just-architect]

National Poetry Day in the UK!  I'm not much of a poetry person but thought I'd share my favourite: 

Thy voice is on the rolling air;       I hear thee where the waters run;       Thou standest in the rising sun,  And in the setting thou art fair.

What art thou then? I cannot guess;       But tho' I seem in star and flower       To feel thee some diffusive power,  I do not therefore love thee less:

My love involves the love before;       My love is vaster passion now;       Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou,  I seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;       I have thee still, and I rejoice;       I prosper, circled with thy voice;  I shall not lose thee tho' I die.

Tennyson, In Memoriam CXXX

[passionismylife-blog]

You make me feel like a damn hamster on a wheel.

I go round and round and round with you. From the conversations to the fucking actions. It's all a vicious cycle with you. But the thing is, I don't ever want to get off the wheel...

[a-just-architect]

Philosophy: Forsterianism