Mothers cry;
daughters and sons wet their beds.

Fathers smile at their reflections,
blind to the veins bursting in their eyes,
the contrast between raw crimson
and violet blossoms.

It is unnatural
for flowers to grow beneath the skin.


Quick sketchbook blah


Quick sketchbook blah

POSTED August 27, 2014 @ 21:50 WITH 211 notes
REBLOGGED FROM: chaiivee (SOURCE: 14isarbitrary)

The world is fucked up, and I’m not yet jaded or pessimistic enough to not be sad.

I am figuring out which parts of my personality are mine 
and which ones I created to please you.

 - The Dust On This Poem Could Choke You/ Lora Mathis lora-mathis (via possibilityofliving)
POSTED August 23, 2014 @ 20:24 WITH 22,802 notes
REBLOGGED FROM: clementinevonradics (SOURCE: possibilityofliving)

(Their Complexity Is Why I Love Them)

I would die to hear you say my name.
Beautiful girls in tortoise-shell frames,
do they know how bright they gleam,
leaving shimmering waves in their wake,
leaving us stuttering woefully behind them?

My path was darkened before you came.
Fingers outstretched to catch even
a tiny brush against the hem of their skirts,
our lungs lose the capacity to breathe,
and we gasp in pathetic, silent bursts.

To follow you, I utterly reject my shame.
Lipstick stains left on the rim of coffee cups,
pens twirling between dexterous fingers.
Their lovely minds are unlocking, shocking,
destroying the notion that they are anything but brilliant.

There are gaps in my writing,
where you once belonged.

I don’t know how
to fill them yet,
if I ever will
at all.

First Impressions in Art 101

Stylishly dressed, business casual
rushed, tardy
air of a woman who gets what she wants
generational gap closer
demanding, possibly
almost tired (not quite)
PhD in calling out bullshit

You’re still at the top of my messenger list on Facebook. I still haven’t deleted our text message thread from my phone. There are still 255 pictures of us on my memory card. Your baseball sweater, number 6, is still hanging in the closet. I still wake up early on Wednesdays to go out for breakfast, though I don’t have anyone to eat with anymore. The pantry is still full of Wheat Thins, your favorite snack. I still walk the same way home, even if I have to pass by your house. The right side of the bed is still unmade. I still order a green tea latte at Starbucks and tell them your name. You’re still the main character in my dreams.

 - "Cling"

I do not wish to return
to where the air is sweet,
and youths translate
romance with flimsy tongues;
because people are perfect,
and perfection is boring,
darkened, cloudy skies
more compelling than
the crystal clear, blue ones,
soundless and oblivious.
I would rather stutter my
way through a bitter crowd,
tasting the fumes of emotion
as the artificial light flickers,
illuminating the creatures below
with each yellow-tinged burst.