lomigoods: I’m sixteen again when you say name And my skin still crawls when our knees knock underneath the table And the look in my eyes is the same one you saw on the first night you held me only intensified tenfold These are the things that make me think forever or at least for now or even just for five minutes to know the way our skin feels when there’s nothing in between us...
hunnyfucks: I can anticipate the setting of the sun, impending doom, lurking darkness, making the sweet moments sweeter, though they end with a bitter afterthought. My heart’s been stretched enough already bound to the north, but now the east and south and west. To miss one is unbearable, to miss many is impossible, so much so that heart of your mind will decide for you who you get...
This is the last poem that will ever fashion it’s backbone from the hollow...– Montana, Clementine von Radic (via floralnymph)
This silence will fall and all that you never said will smother my ears.– Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson (via tylerknott)
I think I finally understand You And why you stood With paper death At the door of your lips Like you didn’t care If it took You
Till death to us part or till your heart’s not in it? And once your heart has turned to stone you’re halfway dead already. So what’s the point of holding on anyways?
positivenergy: someone once told me to tell all my secrets into a seashell and then throw it into the ocean. so that I would feel relieved and so that the only thing that would know me is the sea.
Your hands find pockets and your chin finds your chest when I compliment you.– Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson (via tylerknott)
You have to die a few times before you can really live.– Charles Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers at Last (via unamalditaflorecita)
I want to share every single one of your sunshines and save some for later. I...– Sarah Kay & Phil Kaye (via lidde)
I want to know your body Like I was made for it I want to know the birth mark on your ass shaped like Texas I want to make a constellation from the freckles on your back And trace them with my lips Till we come back down to earth I want to know the way your hair falls as the morning shows it’s face And the way your eyes squint as you’d wish it’d go away I want to plant tiny...
As hard as I tried to put away the thought of all before Forever was a secret treasure buried deep in a drawer Tried to tell myself it was just a four letter word in the aftermath Just to help myself get along for all after that It worked a few times and thought I was free of it But there’s nothing harder to rid yourself of than a feeling Once you held me close like I was made out of...
The hardest part of writing is not killing yourself.– Benedict Smith (via benedictsmith)
Sometimes I don’t write for a really long time and that makes me sad. But then I get sudden inspiration and I get so happy. Even if I write the shittiest piece of poetry the world has ever seen, it’s feels so good.
I don’t understand it just the fragility of it and how it’s true that “nothing gold can stay” it feels so good too good it’s destruction inevitable impending doom it’s tip-towing around the truth of what we both know will one day come
lomigoods: I fell in love with a boy in a dream gestures soft, and words small but his heart is big enough to contain all the love I need. He looks just like you.
I used to want to save the world but it was too big a task for me a girl with limp wrists and ashy knees so then I thought I’d save the country but it didn’t hear my voice muffled by dead-eyed politicians so loud, so stern, so wrong and so stiff then I thought I’d save my city but still I found myself lost in a sea of differing opinions then among the crowd I found...
But if tears bought plane tickets I’d be writing the symphony of your smile instead of the eulogy of love.
I want to find you Like quarters in my sofa Small dusty treasures - I want to fit you Like a puzzle Make sense of all your pieces - I want to know you Like my favorite novel Touch me again
Sad songs sing truths the happiest tune can’t hold. This, my song for autumn, the fall- from the heights of summer. Remembering the nights we felt alive, because we were. With eyes wide, capturing every goodness like tiny fireflies in a jar. A jar which is no longer illuminated. I’ve already forgotten the songs we sang, just weeks ago. Because those were the happy ones, ...
I like my body when it is with your body.– E.E. Cummings (via wrapmeinpaper)
The danger's in the waiting: I’m sixteen again... →
hunnyfucks: I’m sixteen again when you say name And my skin still crawls when our knees knock underneath the table And the look in my eyes is the same one you saw on the first night you held me only intensified tenfold These are the things that make me think forever or at least for now …
The danger's in the waiting: I just want to lay... →
hunnyfucks: I just want to lay with you and feel your skin on mine. I want to feel the curvature of my body against yours. I want my hands to scale your bare, back, shoulders, chest, everything. I want your hands to do the same to me. I want to hear your sleepy voice whisper me beautiful things. I want to…
I know the words to you all too well. But there is comfort in your song. I have sung the words time and time again until it has become a mainstream pop song unoriginal and overplayed. It is time I learn the song of someone new, and sing it until they, too, are stuck in my head.
Many moons have shown their faces since I have last seen yours but I still know the shape of your body: the crook of your arm around my waist, the flare of your nostrils, and the sunken treasure of your eyes. It is quite likely I could study the surface of the night’s watchful eye and never know it the way I know you and your most crooked smile.
thegiganticsquid: I thought I understood it That I could grasp it But I didn’t Not really I knew the smudgeness of it The pink-slippered-all-containered-semi-precious eagerness of it I didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole The wholeness was a rather luxurious idea Because its the halves that halve you in half Didn’t know Don’t know about the in between bits The gore-y bits of you...
I tried to write a poem called “My Boys” Though they were never mine. They were their mama’s boys, and their father’s sons. I’m still trying to write it now “My Boys” they’re the lost boys, that found themselves, discovered me. So I guess this is really called “Their Girl”.
cageandkey: “It is just a poem”, he said. “It is not that even good “, he said. “It doesn’t capture who you are”, he said. “I mean… whatever”, he said. “Shut up and kiss me”, she said.
But she is not the woman I used to know, the woman who traveled a countryside...– My Sister’s Keeper