@arckhaic

weltenwellen :

Gabriela Mistral, tr. by Ursula K. Le Guin, from “Starsong”, Selected Poems of Gabriela Mistral

everdeen :

“Are you making this magic?” “No. You are.”

The Secret Garden (1993), dir. Agnieszka Holland

poeticsuggestions:

follow my art on Instagram

(C.B)(8.1.19)

memoryslandscape :

“magnolia blossoms wait up to guide a love home, votives in moonlight”

— Greg Sellers, haiku journal entry, 13 June 2018

more than anything
more than anything
more than anything
more than anything, it is the loneliness. 

thegestianpoet:

w. h. auden, marginalia

loumargi :

Joke Frima

dk-thrive :

How did we ever get here? I have been measuring
my worth in etched wrists for so long I think my bones
are made of aspartame. Or plum blossom. Can I
gain solubility, dissolve? Can I become entirely blood?
Viscera. Cold palms pressed against
my back. Ribs. Ankles, spine. This resembles a checklist
but is more truly a prayer. A prayer offered
in the rain with a headache behind my eyes.
A prayer offered propped against the car with trembling
hands. Some Magnificat for vivisection. He hath filled
the hungry with good things. Communion wine burns
on an empty stomach. Lord, have I already martyred
myself for skinny jeans? What if I wake up a husk,
made clean and dry by sunlight? What if I wake up
as sunlight itself, yellow and sharp and hard?

~ Margot Armbruster, “Husk” (The Guardian, June 4, 2018)

minhamemoriasuja :

El lenguaje del limbo II by Mariana Restrepo

adirabennett :

CARL DAHL

adirabennett: CARL DAHL

luthienne :

Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things; “The Good Fight”

[Text ID: How do you love?
Like a fist. Like a knife. ]

:::::( i miss writing so much u guys 

geopsych :

As the sun was rising.

boykeats :

I’m hungry

I want holy words
like wild apricots

—Qwo-Li Driskill, from “I Want Sweet Words,” published in Cloudthroat

aqua-regia009 :

Skull Wearing a Wreath of Flowers (c.1874)
by Thomas Satterwhite Noble

meadow-mouse:

not to be l*ovesick on main, but you ever just ache to be held? yearn for someone to lovingly stroke ur back and play w your hair? desire to b desired?

graharaja:

[text ID:

I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?

lunamonchtuna:

— Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Woods

end ID]

arckhaic :

[ rage but it’s so specific 
and saying anything means
you have to scrape your bones
raw just to get down to anything
worthwhile, anything worth the
salt it takes to make it palatable.
boil it in water, mash it down so 
people can swallow it without 
choking. like it’s your respond-
ibility to make sure they don’t 
choke. your fault if they do, isn’t
it? you didn’t say it right. you don’t
have the right words for it. not 
their words and they will gladly 
chew and chew and chew until 
they spit it back out on the plate 
in front of you and tell you what it 
is. what it has always been. & you
want to scream. you want to hollow
yourself out with that scream, give
it a name, a feeling, an identity so 
you can just say that you have one. 
because you know you don’t. putting
a name to your anger means giving
it what you are not allowed. you 
see yourself, chewed up and rehashed
to a version of them. you, but them.
you watch yourself grow smaller 
inside their mouth. you watch your 
scream be pierced in two by incisors,
your backbone crunches between 
molars and you are without the weight
of your bones to hold you down bec-
ause you just tried to explain yourself. 
what self is there to explain? there 
has never been anything there to 
be a self. definition: emptied. 
definition: rage is just an echo of 
you / if you were not this / you. ]  

violentwavesofemotion :

Christa Wolf, tr. by John Cullen, from “Medea,” originally published c. 1996

fatchance :

Driftwood.

First Beach, La Push, Quileute Reservation, Washington.

me: has a sprawling pile of books on my floor that i need to organize due to limited shelf & room space also because i can no longer reach my closet
me:
me:
me: buys six more books and puts them neatly on top of the sprawling pile of books on my floor 

e-seal:

All I do is act incorrectly in response to stimuli

typodescript :

highhawkseason :

Richard Siken, self-portrait against red wallpaper

[ID text: I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work. end ID]

izvoru :

ph-winter vandenbrink_hercules universal.jpg