“I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut. My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the various layers of silence.”—Anna Kamieńska, from Astonishments: Selected Poems (via riseabovethemadness)
There is an entire universe that exists solely in your mind that is impossible to completely share with another person. You are a god onto yourself as beautiful and cruel as you wish to be. That is the realest shit ever.
And in the middle of the night, I saw the etched shadows of forgotten books tossed into corners, collecting dust. I looked out the window and saw the soft, pale sky crying inky blue tears. The silhouettes of every nook and cranny around me whispered and beckoned. There was a humming in my heart and a yearning in my head, and the wind carried memories I wanted to snatch for myself. But I went back to sleep, and my pile of regrets grew.
Paint me a palace where our frenzied chanting of each others names will echo for eons in the high sweeping ceilings. Sketch me a cottage only big enough for you and I, with a tiny herb garden and a slate roof and ivy-festooned walls. Sculpt me a bungalow by the sea where I will write seductive syntax and you will bare your soul in pencil marks on paper as delicate as a butterfly's wing. Craft me somewhere I can dream and play me the songs that remind me it is our home.
My heart is eager to map out the world, but lacks the means. It stretches itself too thin across the Great Plains, and cuts itself atop the jagged Rockies. It freezes against the snowy winds in the Arctic, and burns in the arid land of the Sahara. It gets lost down cobbled Paris streets, and loses its footing at the Great Wall. It drowns on the ocean floor. It searches for a promised land that won't ever be found; it searches for home.
I want you. My entire being longs to trace my fingers down your neck, taste your gentle lips, every cell in my heart yearns to hear you gasp and moan. I want to share your pleasure, I want to bathe in euphoria with you in my arms. I want to reach the nirvana with the tip of my finger as you lift me up. And you cannot imagine how hard it is to watch as you drown yourself in misery, to know that my touch won't make you better and our days are running out.
“Deciding whether or not to trust a person is like deciding whether or not to climb a tree, because you might get a wonderful view from the highest branch or you might simply get covered in sap, and for this reason many people choose to spend their time alone and indoors where it is harder to get a splinter.”—Lemony Snicket, The Penultimate Peril (via felicefawn)