How beautiful it is
to have someone
who loves me for
more than the flower
I am, but for each
fading petal.
— Pavana पवन (via maza-dohta)

posted 1 hour ago with 274 notes
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originally maza-dohta

Teasing Fate

emotionsforthepicking:

it’s moments like this
where you walk into my mind
with your sweet words
and dirty thoughts
causing a lip to be bitten
as I crave you
until we both can reach
for the others body
and just the warmth
wraps us up close
because you craved me too
and the embrace just fills the hole
that we’ve both created
with our communication
and unspoken words
always hinting at more


Marie in church, tugging the spine of her Bible, threads fraying. Olive taps her thigh, light drifting through glittering windows, virgin Mary with her mouth wide open. They are like that too: crushed glass, pressed together, stained. Olive tucks clover between the pages, and Marie smears her honey-coated thumb across the bind. Marie before the pastor, Olive’s hands on her back, pushing her forward. Her tongue dry before she even swallows the wafer, drops of wine like an split lip. She imagines Him inside of her, blood brought to the soft surface of her belly. His body swelling like watermelon seeds, teeth biting the meat of her shoulder. A cross, dragged across her neck, the pastor whispering absolution. Marie blinks and suddenly, Her face.

posted 6 hours ago with 81 notes
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originally wildflowerveins

(Source: foxenews)


posted 6 hours ago with 57,509 notes
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originally foxenews
You have my permission not to love me. I am a cathedral of deadbolts, and I would rather burn myself down than change any of the locks.
Rachel Mckibbens  (via mirroir)

(Source: facina-oris)


posted 6 hours ago with 1,194 notes
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originally facina-oris

voicemailpoems:

'another poem about the whole goddamn universe (because all poems are about the whole goddamn universe if you think about it that way and you should)'
by Sally J. Johnson

the current count of men in space is six
which is still some unbelievable number. still too few
to say we reached anywhere beyond ourselves. still something
to believe in if you’re little enough and that earth-as-marble
perspective lets us know we’re all little enough.

so far two times that many men have made it to the moon.
met that place and said their words and left their flags
and footprints and golf balls and statues and
yes their own shit because if anyone is out there
they need to know about how capable humans are
when it comes to always leaving a mess.

of course we’re now making laws
so that nobody touches our things
all those empty miles away. meanwhile:

here on earth in america in the midwest
a woman with a cinched waist looks up at orion’s belted
sword and thinks of course there is no god. of course

there had to be the violence of starting
out. no deity needed to learn to touch
each other with hurt and tenderness. with
the same hands. so yes the big bang. yes
the smoking gun proof of our arrival. the explosion
that says how we got here. that says yes
heaven is anything we can think of
and still isn’t as vast or perfect as space.
placed here how lucky we are I can’t say.
it’s too cruel or stupid to do so.

so. hope is either the thing with feathers or
combustible fuel and a countdown facing upward.
it is a dying or dead star still showing light
and taking up space in the necklace on the collarbone
of a constellation. original umbilical cord of stars strung together.
the blood trail all milky. way out there. then every one

of us but six still here. so let’s meet on some crushed rock
parking lot to crank our eyelashes skyward. curl them to space.
mascara them the color of open sky around asteroid. afterward
drag our woozy eyes away from our mirrors to see
our reflection past atmosphere. view our profile:
the curve we slice into the crescent.
past that: an act of looking at our baby pictures.
our puny hearts hoping out signals. let’s check
our teeth in the ozone layer. smile at those floating men
up there. ask them if from there they can smell the smoke.


———————————————————

Sally J. Johnson called us from Wilmington, NC.
More about Sally.

1-910-703-POEM

[soundcloud] [podcast] [facebook] [twitter]


posted 6 hours ago with 29 notes
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originally voicemailpoems

Don’t stop

my-words-drip-in-red:

Leave a trail of kisses
Down the length of my spine,
Use your hands to wander
The swells and curves of my body.
My breath will rise and fall
Beneath your tender touch,
Growing faster the further south you go.
And if you stop, even for a moment,
I will beg, until you lay yourself upon me
And take what I am eager to give.


The Cusp of Summer (a poem)

thissometimepoet:

The Cusp of Summer



We broke
on the cusp
of summer
now someone
with a better heart
will find you
and I think
I’ll just start
walking
until the night
takes me whole.


posted 6 hours ago with 40 notes
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originally thissometimepoet

(Source: meorzo)


posted 6 hours ago with 551 notes
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originally meorzo

http://exhalingcatalysts.tumblr.com/post/92655981650/tothecatcher-just-ran-the-most-tranquil-run ⇢

tothecatcher:

Just ran the most tranquil run beneath the redwood forest canopy, their feather leaves cushioning my pace. It was completely silent, save the ravens that discovered me snaking through the mellowed trails that stretched their healed incisions through thickets of shamrock and…


posted 6 hours ago with 17 notes
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originally tothecatcher
If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.
— Edgar Allan Poe (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

(Source: loveyourpoetry)


posted 6 hours ago with 1,825 notes
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originally loveyourpoetry
arrests:

Hibiscus and Sparrow, by Katsushika Hokusai

arrests:

Hibiscus and Sparrow, by Katsushika Hokusai


posted 6 hours ago with 4,804 notes
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originally arrests
millivedderphotography:

LongingsFlickr|Facebook|Tumblr

millivedderphotography:

Longings
Flickr|Facebook|Tumblr

writingforyourlovee:

I am alright, in the comfort of your bones,

my words seem to write,

as sticks bury stones.

to write oneself, is to love,

facing the fear of growing up,

reading beyond the crooked lines,

accepting meaning, in the hardest time.

I am alright, in the comfort of your bones,

dodging all the calls,

begging me to come home.

time adds up,

but to be defined by an instance,

drives those away,

living in the past,

never granted growth, anyways.


lust.

celtic-poetry:

An old one and i have posted it before but its the first poem that i wrote and really liked. I wrote it when i was sixteen years old.

______


I see you as through a window.
A reflection of my desires.
Your contours in the quiet rainy landscape,
makes me tremble with
my own strange feelings.


© 2006


posted 11 hours ago with 19 notes
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originally celtic-poetry
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