Sometimes, I paint. Usually when my brain is overwrought and not able to catch a damn thing in words, so my creativity needs to be drained in a different matter. This one didn’t turn out too shabby.
The judge tilted his great head. The man who believes that the secrets of the...– Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy
Is This What?
Has it always been the way it was? Or do things change so rapidly our eyes blink in tune with the unforeseen? Is this what it always is? Is it some room in some state, searching for home and dying to get anywhere?
I Can't Think.
If I could do anything today, it would be to move through it without you. Such a distraction - that image of your tie wrapped around, biting your bottom lip as our skin melds together and I feel nothing except shortness of breath and anticipation of everything. I can’t think when I’ve left my mind in your sheets.
If I could explain how I feel I would. But I can’t. My thoughts pound my doors and beat my tongue but stay exactly where they are while I watch you drown in words and twirl in verbs and writhe in so much prose I envy the mirror of your pen. Instead I feel. I feel and watch lines on shapes come alive and jump in brilliant definition, definition I can’t...
A Thank You.
There have been times I feel like I’m writing simply to make my own fingers ache. I wonder, is this just me unwinding? Does anybody give a fucking shit? How in the hell am I supposed to be a ‘writer’ if all I’m doing is blogging? I roll my eyes at people who blog - now I’m one of them? But, keeping this blog has proved to be the best thing I’ve ever done....
I could never tell you. I’ll look at you and wonder and think and dive so far into the brown of your eyes a surface no longer exists - but I’ll stay quiet. I can’t let you see. We’re all far too damaged to let each other see. I keep clasping your hand like I’m not afraid. Intertwining my fingers around you even though fear of ripped out...
I’m not thinking of anything. I’m with the wind, the grass, the pollen bits running into my cells. There’s a song in the background, but it’s not really there. The sun peeks in time to time, but the clouds are my roof and dim reflection of suppressed rays my light. I am simply. The earth rustles, everything sways, and everything I am is...
These things I’ve left behind are unnameable. They are feelings and instances and glances around corners and sweeps of wind and moments of laughter. They are sand beneath my feet and the people next to me as I dug in my toes. They are city lights who burn in one state or another. They are places I’ll roam trying to replicate but never duplicate.
This Moving Train.
I remember when I saw you. And you. And you. And all of you. It was imprinted on me. I saw you, bent over a desk, tattooed in a classroom, confident behind a line. I caught these moments of you and something clicked. I thought - I want that. And I made you mine, for better and far worse. I wore you like an arm band and kept you close while we ruined each other in tangled limbs and empty...
Colors and Lines.
Colors and lines and lines and colors blurring and blurring and blurring together. This corner here, that corner there wrapped around in brilliant despair. Grab a pen and get it then cause the glimpse is fleeting and the feeling gone before you can shout - this adjectives wrong! It was different than that! I swear I swear! Oh if you had only been there. You’d of...
There wasn’t a windy day that hadn’t met Julie’s kite. The field behind her house had become a haven; a place she could delicately hold the elements and imagine herself up there, swimming in blue and touching the sun.
It Ain't Love.
Inner or outer, it doesn’t matter. One day indifferent while the next brims of feeling in a lovely paragon. // It ain’t love, but it’s something. // So today, I might call. Or think of calling. But I won’t care if the other line stings empty. Not like yesterday when care rang my insides. // It ain’t love, but it’s something. // ...
I can do this with my soul wrapped around my knuckles.– A friend. Who deserves to be quoted for that.
spanning-time asked: you're actually a whole lot better than most tumblr "poets".
You Ruined My Buzz.
He picks up the phone after one ring. After fourteen years of friendship, we’ve got the silent connection bit down. “Yo!” he answers like it’s a social call. Little does he know… “So, on a scale from 1 to 10, how bad would you say your drug habit is currently?” I dive right in. Small talk is for acquaintances, not truer than blood friends. ...
And why was quiet desperation such a widespread malady back then, and especially...– Kurt Vonnegut, Galapagos
velvetblory: The Waitress. 23 years old with brittle bones and a broken smile, wearing non-slip shoes every night just to stumble into the city bustle too tired to light a cigarette. Youth is slipping by each punch of the saturday night clock. She watches it dance in front of her, all smiles at a table and skirts on the sidewalk. But her smile is fake, her skirt is uniform, and...