December 2011
100 posts
She decided that since she didn’t have anyone to love her, she’d create one, a perfect lover, who would fill in till she found him for real. She’d talk to her love, she’d make him little things, tiny gifts and wrap them and keep them in small boxes that would be kept in another, bigger paper bag labeled ‘for the future’. She would have him have all these quirks and habits that she’d grow to love...
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because without your voice, without its notes in my ears I would not be able to function, because then there’d be a loud silence in my head, a void that’d pull me all in, a black hole if you will and everything else would stretch farther away, warping vision, and that is no way to live
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medication: poetic conversation →
verymodernman:
my poems say to me
hey Dylan!
let’s go out tonight!
we’ll get drunk
we can go to your favorite bar in tacoma
play some songs
we can pick up chicks
we’ll stay out til 3!
let’s go paint the town!
and I say back to my poems
first off, poems,
I’m married
I don’t go…
“Ideas come from everything”
– Alfred Hitchcock (via talkativolive
)
medication: Young people who write are... →
cafeofthedamned:
And I don’t mean the ones who write because they have to, or because it’s required, or because they want to write themselves into an erotic fiction featuring Johnny Depp. I mean the ones who write because it’s their passion, it’s what they do; the ones who need to write,…
“The way you relate to others reveals the way you relate to yourself.”
– The Secret Letters of The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma (via kari-shma)
Line Breaks & Other Violent Crimes: "Rushing... →
ecantwell:
What you wait for rushes through the night. Darkness rushes through the summer night so fast, now it is nearly light. He holds her hand, presses as much as he can see over her sleeping body. The owl rushes back to its nest to regurgitate mice. So many cars rushing through the night into the city…
“Look closely at the present you are constructing, it should look like the future...”
– Alice Walker (via middlenameconfused)
this is true.
tiredfoxes:
i began this morning with coffee, black, and a promise dug into the woodwork of the kitchen chair by my bloody fingernails that i would write something honest today. spill something. honest. this is the best i can do on that promise. i suppose my fingers leave me looking like a liar. they’re more twisted than my mind.
“I remember there was a really cute kid named Pontus when I taught summer art...”
– A. Gates (via riazm)
When you’re left with a void to play with, fill it with art and other insubstantialities because no one will ever fit the same.
Do not think. Do not think.
