I am one of the lucky few who is blessed to have a way with words. A carefree manner to deal with the beauty they bestow upon our tongues; upon my tongue. I’m a young, free-spirited individual. One who merely understands the way letters come together and can affect one so viciously. People misinterpret my intentions, and it may cause a negative perception and may even stir up mixed emotions. But that’s where words come in. They roll, seducing flicks rendering flaunt to our desires. Words crash upon our chest and arms and tower over our fragile bodies, engrave sentiments solely for our sake and then… they die. Words die. Crumpled up little balls of paper, thrown into disposables; trash bins. There are words, however, who are hurdled through recycling bins, to be played as pure forms and truth. No one understands the importance we must hold towards the power and meaning of words. Jumbled up, true, wild, foreign, lustful, hurtful- they feel as you do, they turn as our backs do, stand as we sit and fly as we sink. Words are a part of us; a part of you. These said words, are a part of me.
I’m young but I want to be older. I’m independent but I depend on others. I’m insecure but I flaunt my features. I’m a writer but I’m not famous. I’m a thinker but I’m scared to speak. I’m afraid but I hold my chin up high. They say I’m human but… I don’t want to die.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
Frida Kahlo (via iloveyoulessthanpunk)
(Source: allmymetaphors)
Not people. Never People.
(featherumbrellas - Poem series #72)
I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mothers name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms? Or would you leave the snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad, even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name. And if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mothers joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel.
excerpt from Asking Too Much, Andrea Gibson
(Source: floralnymph)
Her hair curled in complicated twists and turns and just like her legs, never kept still. As much as she tried to tame her strands, they kept going and going. Until the day came when she shaved it off…
She never ran again.
she knew what she wanted and it wasn’t
me.
I know more women like that than any
other kind.
Charles Bukowski, Chicago
(Source: 359-pine)
Monster Under the Bed
I’ve lived with a fierce demon, under my bed since I was 3, wanting nothing in life but to be free.
He was terrifying, and needed to be, since he lived on fear he placed on me.
With red eyes, menacing claws, and an immense jaw with protrusive fangs oozing poison; I suffered from insomnia until he broke from his chains.
He could only be free if he found something scarier than he.
For years he tried with different masks, different tactics, different threats.
However, I couldn’t help but to grow accustomed to it, until the day he broke free.
He’d been with me since I had my own room, so he knew my face better than anyone else’s.
A mask of me. Not implying that I’m terrifying, but the idea behind it was a little hard to grasp, almost uncomfortable.
“That’s me,” I said, confused and surprised.
“No, you’re a human being. A species of ever changing emotions and mentality. Unstable, fickle, destructive, resilient. You can adapt to the fiercest opponents, like myself, and solve problems faster than anything else on this planet. You’ve shaped a world bigger than yourselves, and have the complete potential to destroy it with everyone on it at any point in which you desire. You tear each other’s hearts at will, change your minds from one day to the next without cause. You’re unpredictable as a species. If you know it’s coming, it won’t phase you. That’s why you are scarier than me.”
I’ve never been more scared. The realization. The demon was right, and that night, he was spooked away.
Spooked away by the concept of me.
(Source: heeavyboots)
Kinetic
It’s those late nights
and the
black coffee
and how
nice it feels to know you
still think I’m deep.
But nothing beats the
the acoustic staircase
and your
idea of proposing
or how you almost brought me
to tears with
hand-picked flowers
and
a guitar.
It’s surreal and yet
almost infallible
how whole I feel
laying
next to you
nude
playing scrabble on
my phone.-R.A.E
Just as easy as loving me came; as easy as the days rose and set on the sky; as easy on the eyes as I was in your jeans- just as easily, you watched me walk away.
“I’m drunk with words and I’d hate to be sober. Only then, transcribed with silence, will my life be over.”
