words,

poetry and art thoughtstuffs

[cwote]

Stop regretting the past. Stop dwelling on all of the chances you wish you took and the moments when wish you kept quiet. All of the first kisses you were too afraid to lean into, all of the 5 seconds of no-fear that you never had. For whatever reason, you made the choices you made and they’ve shaped you into who you are today. You did what you thought was right. You did what you had to do to make it to where you are today. Don’t look back in sorrow. Do not lament. Simply let it be and look forward into your infinite future. You are doing so great.

[fuckyeahfluiddynamics]

We can’t always see the flows around us, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Audobon Photography Award winner Kathrin Swaboda waited for a cold morning to catch this spectacular photo of a red-winged blackbird’s song. In the morning chill, moisture from the bird’s breath condensed inside the vortex rings it emitted, giving us a glimpse of its sound. (Image credit: K. Swaboda; via Gizmodo; submitted by Joseph S and Stuart H)

[anancientheart]

[anancientheart]

get your special edition of Soft Human here

[1uvs]

[taflakz]

[birchbritches]

Through the Static 

I’ve been breaking up over radio-wave, fiver living even after I’ve killed it, having all the gall it takes to break the twenty, the only available denomination, 

demonstrably trying to discover how will the jowls come back when a crash from another room, a subsequent pattering, the cheeks depleted their industrious day, and so the signal 

goes away, deflates over space and time and influence of the surrounding world, and we go on anyway interpreting the interrupting. Something more comes across. 

- B B Pine 

[ohdreaming]

my possible career choices: cloud flower

[minuty]

[theclassicsreader]

Books were safer than other people anyway.

Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (via theclassicsreader)

[grammatolatry]

Most of my time is spent displacing want. In some of it, the water heater’s bugged. When I turn my face under the cold kind, what I’m trying to do is divorce my head. I am most proud of my existential friends and secretly embarrassed by sweet weather. We follow the road back to the missed exit. That is the worst mood I can think of. My moments of inward congratulation are offset by meals alone in pants I really like. There is a harmonica under the river. There is the time we kiss our own wrist. Now I have talked my way through dawn and then some, hot up with promises. No longer do I pack my own face towel. Trust lives by its own impossibility. One girl sat in the shopping cart, almost asleep. Her friend didn’t know what to say. There are things you keep dust off. There is no way to explain this. What they don’t tell you about God is that it waits for one kind of laughter to appear in two people at once. This has never happened. Wait. Downstream stood another set of bathers. We felt like someone was writing a song. Give me something to give into. It will be weird. It will be so weird.

“Tell Me And I Will Know,” Mike Young (via grammatolatry)

[minwaajimoweasel]

Visit Original Link

“You’re so nice and you’re so smart. You’re such a good friend, I have to break your heart. I’ll tell you that I love you, then I’ll tear your world apart; just pretend I didn’t tear your world apart…”

[sharkchunks]

[cinemamonamour]

Ghibli Houses: The Antique Shop in Whisper of the Heart (1995)

[lifeinpoetry]

She wishes she could treat pain like a coin purse—something spare, sparse, to be exchanged for something else.

Emily Paige Wilson, from “Hypochondria, Least Powerful of the Greek Gods, pts ii & iv,” published in Cotton Xenomorph (via lifeinpoetry)

[lifeinpoetry]

If only you’d remember before ever you sit down to write that you’ve been a reader long before you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world Buddy Glass would most want to read if he had his heart’s choice. The next step is terrible, but so simple I can hardly believe it as I write it. You just sit down shamelessly and write the thing yourself. I won’t even underline that. It’s too important to be underlined. Oh, dare to do it, Buddy! Trust your heart. You’re a deserving craftsman. It would never betray you. Good night. I’m feeling very much over-excited now, and a little dramatic, but I think I’d give almost anything on earth to see you writing a something, an anything, a story, a poem, a tree, that was really and truly after your own heart.

J.D. Salinger; “Seymour: An Introduction” (via lifeinpoetry)

[boykeats]

since you mentioned looking into art restoration and stuff--I think that'd make a really neat poetry prompt!

a starling still spreads its wings in spiteof the way time tries to bury it in yellow.the chicory still blooms blue even whencracks run through it. however the canvassurvives the fire, it survives, & that meanswe can tug the hymns out of wherethey hide in the shadows of our chests& we can turn them into oil paints. call thatlove, call that god, call that poetrywith blood behind it.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

On herself she had no mercy.

Charlotte Brontë, referring to Emily Brontë, from “Memoir of Emily Jane Brontë,” (via violentwavesofemotion)