The Word Shaker's Tree

[featherumbrellas-deactivated201]

THE FIRST TIME I SLEPT IN HIS BED HE ASKED ME IF I LIKED THE SMELL OF LAVENDER AND SINCE THEN EVERYTHING THAT CALMS ME HAS BEEN PURPLE. But if I could name this feeling, I’d call it the road home is longer than it looks. I’d call it, plane tickets and loose change are caught in my throat. I’d call it, screaming skin and my heart taming its wilderness in you. The first time I slept in his bed, he asked me if I liked the smell of lavender. Well, I do now. And if I could name this feeling, I’d call it memories of my week with you. I’d call it, asking the cards ‘what the hell am I supposed to do with these now?’ I’d call it, there isn’t an answer, only sore lungs soaking up an aching heart. The first time I slept in his bed, he told me the distance between us might be louder than anything we have to offer. So I wrote this poem in his sheets  and it isn’t going to silence my skin or bring my heart back but it will put my hopes out into the universe that one day we will wake up to the smell of lavender in a town we both call home.

Alessia Di Cesare, The First Time I Slept In His Bed (via featherumbrellas)

[fy-perspectives]

Ambition is not a dirty word. Piss on compromise. Go for the throat. “

Steven Erikson, Gardens of the Moon (via fyp-psychology)

[darshanasuresh]

Tell me, Atlas. What is heavier: The world or its people’s hearts?

Darshana S, Atlas still stands but does anyone else? (via colinmorgasms)

[quoted-books]

“What day is it?” “It’s today”, squeaked Piglet. “My favorite day”, said Pooh.

A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh (via quoted-books)

[passagesandpages]

She saw it immediately. His manner. The quiet air around him. When he turned on the light in the small, callous washroom that night, Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father’s eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting.

Markus Zusak, The Book Thief (via passagesandpages)

[afadthatlastsforever]

Hate and anger are acidic. Hold either in your heart and they will eat through the walls and spill out into the lives of the people you love.

Beau Taplin // A c i d i c (via afadthatlastsforever)

[hereunoia]

I think I've given all my love away, I'm really scared

It’s okay. Check your pockets again. You can’t lose the thing you were made from. 

[featherumbrellas-deactivated201]

The swallow woke with the moon in her womb. Last night, poisoned and without wind,   she was blamed for the sinking of her own ship. They said the swallow should have learned by now, not to sail in waters that are home to the hunters of the sea. Pirates will be pirates, they said. Aggressive and selfish, they are— the little swallow should have known. The swallow woke with the moon in her womb. They said, what else did she expect? A songbird with satin blue feathers glossing the night: she asked for them, she called for them. A songbird with a sapphire tune. And they said the swallow ought to be flattered, for the pirates know when they’ve encountered a treasure. 
Her body objectified: measured into gold. Take it as a compliment, they said. A compliment. The swallow woke with the moon in her womb, fearing it to be a magnet for the pirate’s return. They said, cut its growth short. You’ve been warned of its expansion. They said, keep it. This is what you deserve. But the swallow is a bird who cannot root out a safe entrance to her womb without the threat of her life’s end, or the crushing of all her moons. So the swallow expands, but the blame on her body is muted. They can sink your ship, songbird. But they cannot sink your tune.

Alessia Di Cesare, The Swallow Who Was Blamed for the Sinking of Her Own Ship.  (via featherumbrellas)

[writingsforwinter]

The Face That Launched A Thousand Ships

Trojan as war. Trojan as condoms he never put on.

Once at a wedding the bride & groom were showered in birdseed

instead of rice and salt as optimism for a new baby.

Months later wife is deemed infertile & all the crows

fall dead from the trees like black ribbons untied

from their nooses.

He calls out Helen in bed with me,

catalogues my ribs like a thousand ships scattered by

the storm, led by Aachaeans.

Each bone another knotted pearl

waiting to be plucked.

The next day I catch him on Tinder

messaging some other woman; strange how the name

is reminiscent of kindling and fire, strange how

this will leave scorch marks on every following poem.

It’s me. I’m the wounded wife who couldn’t bear a child.

Who let something grow inside her for so long

that eventually it refused to come out of hibernation.

No matter how hard I push.

Love isn’t a synonym for stay, so he leaves.

Telephus asked the oracle, “What will happen to the wound?

And the oracle replied, “he that wounded shall heal.”

But what about me? I who gave

until my giving

became a given?

Am I not the one that needs the healing?

[passagesandpages]

Stay gold, Ponyboy.

S.E. Hinton, The Outsiders (via passagesandpages)

[shattteredsouls]

Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.

Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns. (via lipstick-bullet)

[xaviiers]

Icarus flew too close to the sun and fell to the earth as his wings of wax melted But what they don’t tell you is Daedalus watched His child fall Had to retrieve the body From the depths of waves Smooth the feathers From his face The scraps of what remained Of the wings He had built for him The last laugh of his victory Etched on his face (Joy even in burning Because he had been so close) Happiness is reserved for those Who know their place between gods and earth (Sun and Sea) Icarus had loved the sun And so Daedalus lost his

we write about the fallen but forget the falling || daphne (via mythaelogy)

[hereunoia]

Mother, what happened in your heart? Do you not remember you used to breathe for me?

Alaska Gold (via hereunoia)

[lora-mathis]

Mother cracks a rib open and out leaks the sun. Mother is all, speed of light. Mother is all, the birth of the universe. Mother is all, that bright dot you point out when you are too young to ignore the stars. Mother tries to hide the light-streaked mess she’s made on the kitchen floor and curses when she catches you looking at her. Mother doesn’t appreciate it. Mother doesn’t need your eyes making shadows on her mistakes. Mother is embarrassed enough already. You turn away. Let Mother have this one. When you see Mother again, she has a dish towel around her chest and is grunting up the stairs. Mother, you ask, Are you okay? Mother is all, snarls and horse patter Mother is all, don’t talk to me in that tone of voice Mother is all, who the hell do you think you are, looking at me so widely? Mother gives you a hard look and then pulls the dish cloth off her chest, reaches into herself, and pulls out an uncracked rib There, Mother says. Happy? You do not know how to say “no” to Mother. Mother doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t need to hear it. You let your teeth hang a little loose until slight sun trickles out and Mother turns away, satisfied. And you are left with your mess, a small puddle of light washed over one of Mother’s ribs

Mother pt. 2, Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

[michellekpoems]

Sleeping next to someone, not with someone, is perhaps the most intimate you will ever be with another human. In sleep, we are completely defenceless. We are soft and supple and childlike. Our hard exteriors falls away when the sand hits our eyes. The way you sleep, with your face softened and your arms wrapped around my waist, is the most beautiful thing

Michelle K., I Miss Sleeping Next To You. (via bl-ossomed)

[featherumbrellas-deactivated201]

Van Gogh once said that death takes us to another star — gravity is lifted off of our body and we transform into the sky. 
 But the sky is out of reach when our feet are fixed on the ground 
and how is it that a person can just disappear? From here, there will be words that will be hard to pronounce. 
There will be unspoken shoulds and questions you’ll prefer not to answer. 
Words will swell like corks in your throat — 
your hands will find it hard to settle themselves. 
 You will find labour in honesty. You will have questions that will drag answers 
too raw to digest. 
You will refuse to let him vanish. From here, you will hum the symphony of your memories 
composed of the feel of him. 
 You will tune your laughter to the sound of your childhood 
and you will breathe-in, with a ting of pine, 
 when you come across any relic of his presence. 
 Van Gogh once said that death takes us to another star. 
We swallow stars in our sleep. And on some mornings, 
 we wake up with a brighter light 
guiding the darkest parts of ourselves. These guides have wings made from silvers 
transcending beyond human vision — They have the form of a sign you need most, 
 when you need it most. 
 Sometimes we are sent to the sky before we hope to be, 
sometimes we search for another star ourselves. 
 Sometimes we want to be out of reach — 
 apart of a constellation people rely on to find their way home. Not one person lives their entire life without losing someone — without having the world stolen right from their hands. But see, 
 when you love someone who has been taken 
 to another star, you travel with them, to the sky, 
 in the same way they remain here with you.

Alessia Di Cesare, Sent to the Sky, to Another Star.  (via featherumbrellas)

[buttonpoetry]

Yesika Salgado - “Brown Girl” "I think in English, but my tongue is dressed in Spanish. I am always missing a word for something in either language." Performing at YouTube Space in Los Angeles. Subscribe to Button on YouTube!