Latest Posts by picturemorpeusdreams - Page 2

Czeslaw Milosz, New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001

Danez Smith, Don't Call Us Dead

Danez Smith, Don't Call Us Dead

Ocean Vuong, The Weight of Our Living: On Hope, Fire Escapes, and Visible Desperation

Ocean Vuong, “A Letter to my Mother that She Will Never Read” The New Yorker, May 2017 

Cameron Awkward-Rich, from "Anti-Elegy"

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

that perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

Emily Dickinson

Wild Geese, Mary Oliver

Marie Howe, from “Watching Television”, What the Living Do

“I want to be with you, it is as simple, and as complicated as that.”

— Charles Bukowski

I don’t know a perfect person. I only know flawed people who are still worth loving.

John Green

Cheeky

Death’s an old joke, but each individual encounters it anew.

(Ivan Turgenev)

This August I began to dream of drowning

Anne Sexton, from "Imitations of Drowning" in The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton

I’m not afraid of dying. Pieces of me die all the time.

Sage Francis

"I've never been lonely. I've been in a room -- I've felt suicidal. I've been depressed. I've felt awful -- awful beyond all -- but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me...or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I've never been bothered with because I've always had this terrible itch for solitude. It's being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I'll quote Ibsen, "The strongest men are the most alone." I've never thought, "Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck-job, rub my balls, and I'll feel good." No, that won't help. You know the typical crowd, "Wow, it's Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?" Well, yeah. Because there's nothing out there. It's stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I've never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn't want to hide in factories. That's all. Sorry for all the millions, but I've never been lonely. I like myself. I'm the best form of entertainment I have. Let's drink more wine!" - Charles Bukowski

Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase

Pablo Neruda, tr. by Mark Eisner, "One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII", The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems

여어- 히싸씨부리 （ ɔ̸ᴉʇɐ͟N͞さんのツイート ）

writer aesthetics

john keats: the lavender in sunsets, flowers in the rain, sunlight slipping through clouds, lazy summer afternoons, the heavy scent of musk, flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books, fireflies on a cool summer night, being wrapped in fresh bedsheets, the ache of wanting what you can never have, dripping sunlight like gold, loving someone so exquisite, soft lips and soft whispers, fingers through hair, names of lovers carved in trees, broken glass, the insistence of being perpetually dreamy

f. scott fitzgerald: mahogany wood, crisp winter skies with cold bright stars, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog, empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room, pale bruised arms reaching out into the darkness, cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol, a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered, a bad thunderstorm occurring at the end of a beautiful day, the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater, parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing, the contrast of blood against snow, a purple split lip oozing blood, black eyes fading to blue to pale skin, the butterflies of falling in love for the first time, the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries, the romanticization of self-destruction

franz kafka: the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future, decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there, the way not even light can escape a black hole, the rich smell of old books,  delicate veins in the wrist, ghosts filling lungs, shattered bones, raindrops on the tongue, rusting metal, nostalgia that aches, the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head

h.p. lovecraft:  the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave, pouring rain and mud, a child’s fear of the dark, thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never ending ocean,  the silence of three a.m.,  danse macabre by camille saint-saens playing on a record in an empty house, the possibility of aliens and the weird feeling it gives you that you can’t explain, unexplainable phenomena, strange lights in the sky in the dead of night, ouija boards and urban legends

jack kerouac: the brisk pine air of being on a mountain, travels without a destination, those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory, screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive, coffee shops late at night, car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark, naps spent in the sun,  novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins, the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders, ignoring flaws and loving life, wind through hair, depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals, a quiet sunrise, walks alone, when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe, dazzling people, open lands stretching out into infinity, falling in love with being alive

edgar allan poe: the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog, hollow bones, a preserved heart held in hands, twinkling stars above an old graveyard, the way everything turns to dust, silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames, perfection depicted as a rotting corpse, death as bricks in the heart, lips barely brushing against each other, glassy glazed eyes, biting into a lemon,  heart-shaped bruises, rotting flowers on a grave, dried blood and spilled liquor, the hush of dusk when it begins raining, the intimacy of a secret

Ocean Vuong, from “Woodworking at the End of the World”, Time Is a Mother

449. Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss (1777) - Antonio Canova, Musée du Louvre, Paris

Since I wasn’t consulted at the time of the creation of the world, I reserve for myself the right to have my own opinion about it.

(Fyodor Dostoevsky)

“I’m not sentimental — I’m as romantic as you are. The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last — the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

Emily Dickinson, in a letter to Joseph A. Sweetser, wr. c. Summer 1858

Brienne Christopher Bull

Mammatus skies at Ross Lake, Washington