[MIDNIGHT AND METAPHORS] I wrote you differently. Not stereo loud, not humming, or the sound of a feather falling, silent. I wrote you when as a child I would look for seashell fingertips of the ocean. Borrowing, listening to parts of you no one hears and falling for the waves like heartbeats, I would say, let me steal you away. Let me take you home with me.


Oct 22    + 183564

When I haven’t been kissed

in a long time, I create civil disturbances,
then insult the cops who show up,

till one of them grabs me by the collar
and hurls me up against the squad car,

so I can remember, at least for a moment,
what it’s like to be touched.

Jeffrey McDaniel, “When A Man Hasn’t Been Kissed” (via lifeinpoetry)

(via rustyvoices)

Oct 22    + 2311

The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful […] Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.

Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being (HarperPerennial, 1981)

(Source: whyallcaps.us, via letters-to-nobody)

Oct 21    + 1004

I don’t chase people anymore. I learned that I’m here, and I’m important. I’m not going to run after people to prove that I matter.

EY  (via dressrosas)

(Source: latelycravingmore, via i-pulledthetrigger)

Oct 21    + 119145

“I can’t handle this,” he told her.

But something in his expression screamed:

“I can’t handle you.”

And she thought then, that perhaps all relationships were just a case of who gave up first. And her pride couldn’t decide which was worse: giving up when you had promised them not to, or waking up to find that they had given up on you.

Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #75 (via ocean-of-unsaid-words)

(via i-pulledthetrigger)

Oct 21    + 10583

At first glance, I mistook your name for Khaleesi. I don’t remember the first poem I read of yours, but I remember the fire that engulfed my skin. You are a reminder that my body is allowed to be a match and my voice is able to burn louder than the mouth of a dragon.

You are a reminder that has helped me understand that if you unwrap my body, it is more than what meets the eye. My veins are woven with my lungs and veins and heart and poems to let everyone and myself know that I am not a mistake or an apology. I am a statement of what it means to be alive.

You are right, my voice will crack, but it is not broken. I will fall, but I will not shatter. I will clench my fists and bruise my insides if that is the price that I must pay for feeling too much.

I am a reflection of beauty and fear, but you taught me that you must not forget that although you will spit your teeth out and bite your jaw, it is okay to wrap yourself around the sky and cry out to the moon and watch as your skin oozes charcoal.

I am a statement. I am not an apology. I am a kaleidoscope.

How to be a Kaleidoscope: A poem for Kharla,” n.a   (via sailingaugust)

(via backshelfpoet)

Oct 21    + 305

Oct 21    + 37996

What I feel for you can’t be conveyed in phrasal combinations; It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds. I promise.

Katherine Mansfield, from The Collected Letters (via c-ovet)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via i-pulledthetrigger)

Oct 21    + 5823

Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 26 August 1956 in Paris   (via theegreywolf)

(Source: lovingsylvia, via theegreywolf)

Oct 21    + 8837

And may your bones
sing, no longer with pain, but with roses.

Moira Egan, “Vespers” (via petrichour)

(via writingwillows)

Oct 21    + 1492

ecklekctic:

Anna Karina: That happened while we were shooting the picture in Geneva. It was a strange love story from the beginning. I could see Jean-Luc was looking at me all the time, and I was looking at him too, all day long.  We were like animals. One night we were at this dinner in Lausanne. My boyfriend, who was a painter, was there too. And suddenly I felt something under the table – it was Jean-Luc’s hand. He gave me a piece of paper and then left to drive back to Geneva. I went into another room to see what he’d written.  It said, “I love you.  Rendezvous at midnight at the Café de la Prez.” And then my boyfriend came into the room and demanded to see the piece of paper, and he took my arm and grabbed it and read it.  He said, “You’re not going.” And I said, “I am.” And he said, “But you can’t do this to me.”  I said, “But I’m in love too, so I’m going.” But he still didn’t believe me. We drove back to Geneva and I started to pack my tiny suitcase.  He said, “Tell me you’re not going.” And I said, “I’ve been in love with him since I saw him the second time. And I can’t do anything about it.” It was like something electric. I walked there, and I remember my painter was running after me crying. I was, like, hypnotized – it never happened again to me in my life.
So I get to the Cafe de la Prez, and Jean-Luc was sitting there reading a paper, but I don’t think he was really reading it. I just stood there in front of him for what seemed like an hour but I guess was not more than thirty seconds. Suddenly he stopped reading and said,” Here you are. Shall we go?” So we went to his hotel. The next morning when I woke up he wasn’t there. I got very worried. I took a shower, and then he came back about an hour later with the dress I wore in the film - the white dress with flowers. And it was my size, perfect. It was like my wedding dress.
We carried on shooting the film, and, of course, my painter left. When the picture was finished, I went back to Paris with Jean-Luc, Michel Subor, who was the main actor, and Laszlo Szabo, who was also in the film, in Jean-Luc’s American car. We were all wearing dark glasses and we got stopped at the border – I guess they thought we were gangsters. When we arrived in Paris, Jean-Luc dropped the other two off and said to me, “Where are you going?”  I said, “I have to stay with you. You’re the only person I have in the world now.” And he said, “Oh my God.”

Oct 21    + 23225

You had to stand there saying:

I love you, I love you, I love you
we’re soul mates, you and I, but that doesn’t mean it works
that doesn’t mean it works

that means my soul can’t bear to be without yours

but that doesn’t mean it works

"You Couldn’t Just Leave?" Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

(via mooneyedandglowing)

Oct 21    + 1341

…choose to believe in your own myth
your own glamour
your own spell
a young woman who does this
(even if she is just pretending)
has everything.

Francesca Lia Block, from How to (Un)cage a Girl (via mirroir)

(Source: liquidlightandrunningtrees, via lifeinpoetry)

Oct 20    + 1137

prisonofself:

bl-ossomed:

fantasticarepickles:


this makes my heart ache

Silverstein always has been, and always will be my favorite poet because he doesn’t even need words in his poem to make people open their eyes.

So sad

This still breaks me every time.

Oct 20    + 916013

Show me your worst,
And I will show you
How I love you
Just the same.

(via mcqueencat)

(Source: blossomfully, via prisonofself)

Oct 20    + 46309

[i'm kharla and i try to write.]