Empyrean01 - Empyrean🍒

Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

is there anything more fun than creating something and being able to say “this is how I feel”

https://www.instagram.com/p/BWzs7iMDXE_/

— an anonymous woman on coming to terms with being a lesbian in the 1950’s-60’s, from an interview with Deborah Goleman Wolf

“I do not desire mediocre love. I want to drown in someone.”

— (via nostalgicnerd)

“Hush now, don’t speak. I can read your thoughts in your eyes, sense them in the way you hold my hand. I know what you want to say when you hold me tight and can’t seem to let me go. Sometimes we’re better off enjoying the silence, better off filling the space between the lines. Letting the unsaid things talk. We don’t have to give it a name as long as we both know what we’re in over our heads. Sometimes words simply aren’t needed. Not when I’m with you.”

— hush now / n.j.

I wanna run away with someone in the middle of the night and go on adventures and see the world and eat at cheap truck stops and sit on top of our car and look at the stars and just be somewhere other than here. 

I listened to Bukowski this morning, and I realized my writing is not raw enough, angry enough, drunk enough; I even drink red wine instead of cheap beer. I detest cigarettes, never served in war, or roamed the streets looking to settle on the bed of some dude’s crude floor. I’m too feminine, too much an inherent believer in the quality of people. My heart is adversely set against his heretical ways. I’ve never been stabbed in the back by love, or if I have, I pulled the prick out years ago, and time and forgiveness have sealed the scar over. I might have even forgotten where the wounds are buried. I never carved mistakes out of people, stole time in self destruction, stared into the holes of another’s deceit. I’m not modern enough to be a true angst-filled American poet. I don’t possess the tongue to squeeze lemon over my open lesions letting them ooze into a glass I pour out as charity for the masses. Come, let me sacrifice hopelessness for the voyeurs. No, I only know to write of the way his lips taste the soft worlds within my seascape, the slant of patchwork light filtering through the hallway window, jewel-toned shells that satiate my harlequin heart. I only know of simple subjects; I’ve somehow been denied the stench or overlooked the cracked places harboring broken bottles and blood-stained lips. Does that make me any less a poet, I wonder.

upon reading Bukowski//

Rhapsodyinblue45

4.8.18

Her

Poetry is when a heart aches of love, pure genuine love, an offspring of happiness. It is when tears run down your cheeks due to the amount of love one can feel. it allows you a moment of pure ecstasy, so hypnotic to the eye of one who has once felt that pure love. Poetry is art. Art that creates ethereal imagery in your heart, and mind.

28/10