March 2012
209 posts
I’m sorry I’m not writing, my brother is getting married and I have run out of words.
apoetreflects:
“Remember me is all I ask, And, if remembered be a task, Forget me.”
—Album verses by Minerva Butler Miller, tinsmith’s daughter, peddler’s wife, c. 1850.
girlinwolfskin asked: So tread lightly. Take only what you need -shards of a heart or the twinkle of gloriously dark eyes; a wisp of a memory; a word of charm and heroism. Only what you need. People like you, people like me: we don't settle. We walk as the lines blur like the winds in a dream. We are the hurricanes forced into jars, and wee are the racing wolves that keep people like you up at night and we are...
“Maybe there’s something you’re afraid to say, or someone you’re afraid to love,...”
– John Green (via selfinspiration)
For you.
Paper doll, I might have written you. Penned the doe eyes of your face in one of my greater moments (I would know no other like you again), the facets of the desert I see in you when you blink, you become places I’d never seen and goodness I’d never heard of until you, the compass of your features. (You tied us together at the wrist.) A whole world to me, you carry oceans inside of...
1 tag
the shipfitter's wife: In June of 1945, Arline... →
readtowrite:
In June of 1945, Arline Feynman — high-school sweetheart and wife of the hugely influential physicist, Richard Feynman — passed away after succumbing to tuberculosis. She was 25-years-old. 16 months later, in October of 1946, Richard wrote his late wife the following love letter and sealed it in an envelope. It remained unopened until after his death in 1988.
October 17, 1946...
nocternity:
listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go
― E.E. Cummings
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The world hasn’t forgotten you. Neither have the people who find your smile delightful, or want to trace the freckles on your nose with the edge of a spoon. You haven’t been shoved into the back of somebody’s mind. Yeah, sometimes you feel so alone that you have to pinch the skin of your forearms to remember that you’re still alive and you’re still breathing....
“La tristesse durera toujours.
(The sadness will last forever.)”
– Suicide note of Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890)
Anonymous asked: Do you still needs help with your words? If so, I'd love to see what you come up with in response to “She’s mad, but she’s magic.” — Charles Bukowski.
“It’s about girls who sleep in abandoned cars and set things on fire. It’s about...”
– Harmony Korine (via kiteofbones)
“I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she...”
– Pablo Neruda (via floralnymph)
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The first time you kissed me: you unpeeled my skin like a blood orange in the slide of a sticky sun, dug your fingertips into the grip of my waist where my body stretched upwards towards you like a sunflower, like you’d called me. You cupped the shivering bones of my ribcage beneath your palms and you held me still when I might have trembled away. Curved my cheekbones like prayer between...
4 tags
I’ve not been posting because I’ve managed to murder yet another laptop charger (this is my second, and I am truly a disaster zone and should not be allowed out in public.) I’ve ordered a new one and so it should hopefully be here by Monday or Tuesday and I’ll respond to everything then. I adore you all.
“My lips are now burning and everywhere.
I am running from every corner of this...”
– Hafiz (via fernsandmoss)
englishpearl asked: I fell in love with a city I’ll never know, but I want to know it. Forever, I want to know it. Your love is like a butterfly crawling across my eyes. (Delicate, fragile & easily breakable; yet precious, beautiful & inspiring.)
Anonymous asked: I've always wondered: do you need to be born with a certain talent to be a good writer? Is it like art in the way that you can practice and practice but never be good enough if you don't have innate talent? This keeps me up at night.
theunabridgedjournal asked: What if time didn't exist? What if it was an illusion?
2 tags
I’ve lost my words, please send me prompts, lyrics, thoughts, words, anything at all.
Goodnight, I have to get out of my head before I explode.
I can’t write I think I’m going insane
Interviewer: What piece of advice would you give to Stephen Fry, aged 10.
Stephen Fry: You're not alone. Everything you feel is fine. Only feel guilty about things you have done that are mean and cheap and unkind. Don't feel guilty about what you feel, no matter what the world might think. Everyone is scared inside, not just you. That's why reading is so good. Keep doing it. Writers are people brave enough to make you feel better about being human because they're not afraid to reveal their own frailties, weaknesses, desires, failures, and appetites.
“There are silences harder to take back than words.”
– James Richardson (via chantellowitz182)
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emmacherry: forestgirl: My love has made me... →
forestgirl:
My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you – I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again – my Life seems to stop there – I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving – I should be exquisitely…
tokillamockingjerk asked: These words are beautiful. Letters, enticing. Melancholy so delicious I can't help but dwell in it. I guess I like it cos I am but a sad soul tonight
“Tell me a secret.” Voice like steel and bitter coffee, caught on the edge of nicotine induced growl he was sprawled on his back, long limbs dangling like branches across the floor. There was an ashtray by his side, burning slightly with the remnants of a cigarette he’d put out when she came in, dragging her feet and shifting herself until her body pulled and twisted. She’d found him on the floor,...
ingenue-in-wonderland asked: What novel? Or is it so lovely that you want to keep the name a secret and keep it to yourself just for a little while. I can't blame you if that's your wish.
I am reading a novel I simply can’t put down, it’s 12:09, I have to wake up in less than seven hours and tomorrow I am going to be grouchiest, grumpiest female in the South of England. The power of words is almost boggling. I didn’t think I loved anything more than sleep.
Anniversary
You were spitting nails like catharsis when I first found you, toiling in heaps of the talentless, telling stories we both laughed at. I remember you, when you cracked your knuckles and bared your teeth like a mother protecting her cubs you were foreign then, uncharted. You were America to me, and I had to learn you the way I did french, rolled your moods around the hollows of my cheeks, pressed...
I have a terrible crush on Shang from Mulan. I don’t understand my obsession with the fictional.
“There is no place to go that is not you, she said.”
-Kelcy Wilburn, “The Catch”
– (via trainwrite)
“cadence, n.
I have never lived anywhere but New York or New England, but there...”
– The Lover’s Dictionary - David Levithan (via lovecompared)
Anonymous asked: i'm gone from the world.
fragilethoughts-:
Music when the lights go out...
I wanted to tell you that you’re special. That your eyes are redemption, your voice is a prayer and those words you speak with your quick artists mouth have saved me. I wanted to tell you that if I was the Moon, I would mould you in my hands until you touched the paving stones that make my body, until my molecules are woven into yours seamless like skin. I wanted to tell you that you are the...
“Misgivings, n.
Last night, I got up the courage to ask you if you regretted us....”
– David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary (via luistriesliving)
“Always be a poet, even in prose.”
– Charles Baudelaire, “My Heart Laid Bare,” Intimate Journals, 1864 (via girlinlondon)
Your place: under my skin where you hummed like a hummingbird under my blood and my nerves tangled to electric wires over razor sharp edges when the pout of your mouth touched the wing of my collarbone and you fed from me as though I might be Chalice and you might be Thirst. Your body: my instrument. I strummed you like a guitar, used your breath to pluck music from your open lips and fed you...
