Latest Posts by salinyay-blog - Page 3
I am pulling myself from the magician’s hat, night after night.
Guante, from A Love Song, A Death Rattle, A Battle Cry
Guante’s phenomenal collection of writing is available at the Button Store. Check it out today!
(via buttonpoetry)
lets do an honesty hour ask me anything
Way.
Ph:DanSpb
The way I splash your relentless name In shivers about me. Watch him wallow. If he tastes mud as bitter as this poem Of mine, then I win – and you love me.
Jericho Brown, Grip (via: skinthepoet)
″One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.“
- Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
What i’m learning is that growth is ugly. It’s not bubble baths and self-help books that teach you how to love yourself. It’s fighting, kicking and screaming against the self-doubt that weighs you down. It’s panicking at the possibility of failure while still moving forward anyway. It’s slowly peeling out of your skin and feeling the tenderness of a touch without armor. The process of growth is ugly, but it’s the product that makes it worthwhile.
a.m. // what i’m learning (via writingitdown)
I’d rather be in the mountains thinking of God than in church thinking about the mountains.
John Muir (via wordsthat-speak)
I’m currently rereading Life On Mars by T.K Smith & I swear my feet might be grounded in this old city but my head is somewhere in between a burning star & the edge of a distant galaxy.
more sunrises and less screen time.
more loving and less comparing love.
more happiness and less posting “happy” pictures on instagram.
more living in the now and less worrying about what hasn’t happened.
more tumblr and less instagram.
more yoga and less hitting snooze in the morning.
more real conversations and less talking about how drunk we got the night before.
more peace and less judgement.
more simplicity and less impulse buying.
more water and less coffee.
more self-love and less looking for love.
more living with intent and less having the wrong intentions.
more being responsible and less not studying for important things.
more music/books and less television.
more deep breaths and less not being able to control my life.
more forgiveness and less anger.
more self-soul searching and less looking for another soul right now.
The Darkest Truth About Love from Hannah Jacobs
black lips
five weeks before you broke my heart, i had this dream where my father stood in front of me. two generations lost in close-knit shadows, facing the other in the midst of a nightmare & staring deep into the vortex of each other’s eyes.
in a rusty voice, he recited to my face every lie he’s ever told.
his childhood, the seize, the running, my mom, his misery.
in the rhythm of his words, in the flow of his lies, his lips began turning black.
Lie after lie, his lips, a shade d e e p e r in the obscurity.
turning my back on this show proved useless, as my neck was stiff & my legs, knee-deep in thick soil.
stare & listen, while tears water the ground
i tried screaming, as to suffocate the torture of his words with my own shriek. but my mouth was sealed closed & my hands, disloyal to my commands.
i woke up a fountain of cold sweat, sobbing.
….
two nights before we murdered our love in cold blood, we met for drinks at a bar à vins. the gleam in our eyes yelled to the entire world how traces of ancient grapes ran in our blood. god were we playful while life was onto us.
sneaky little romance
we talked about it all that night: gravity & flying, friction & fire, language & riddles. for the 500th time, you corrected my pronunciation of the letter u. & in the stretching of your mouth, i fell victim to the evident art in your beauty; jawlines dancing in perfect rhythm; an enigmatic symmetry traced in your face.
on our way home, we walked the streets as if sidewalks were made for peasants & we had just been crowned kings. laughing, stumbling, holding onto each other.
in a deserted street, you wrapped me in your arms while murmuring in a secretive voice:
i love you
we both smiled.
& under beams of moonlight, while my eyes hunted for your eyes, i noticed red wine had stained your lips black.
- @skinthepoet
‘But, I love him.’ the Sea whispers to the Sun. ‘I know,’ The Sun replies. ‘But I’ve loved him longer. I loved him first.’
The Fall of Icarus - Commentary | p.d (via lostcap)
maghrib at home
Mouna Kalla-Sacranie © more here
scientists fear
with a hand on the window frame, you looked out at the night sky. & turning your head toward me, you said there was this theory about the universe being ever e x p a n d i n g.
that every star, planet, galaxy & blackhole currently alive, is endlessly drifting apart from it all.
as though in their hovering for distance, in their majestic swaying through stellar matter, every atom of the universe claimed independence from our shared existence.
that same night our last the spellbinding vibes in your beauty & that rant over the cosmos, walked me into a laberynth of oblivion; cause what i forgot to tell you & what you didn’t seem to know, was that there is another theory out there: an antithesis on the dynamics of the universe.
scientists suspect the universe will eventually stop its expansion to begin its c o n t r a c t i o n. exactly as the ball vertically thrown to reach the sky, that at a certain height surrenders to gravity & starts its way down.
scientists fear that every star & planet & galaxy & blackhole will shrink into a single spot in place & time. a sort of big bang in reverse. outside going in.
boom
which is to say: you fled away from me to smash piece by piece the things we had built. i guess in some shape or form we mimicked the universe by drifting away from each other; by sitting on opposite edges of this galaxy; dodging our own asteroids; breathing distant stardust & riding comets that might never cross paths.
imagine, just imagine that these scientists’ fear comes true & all we know to exist begins to compress; will the universe then bring us back to where we were?
a massive clash. gallactic friction.
cosmos to cosmos, blackhole to blackhole, planet to planet, & lips to lips.
hey, this might just be the universe reminding us that we are destined to collide.
- @skinthepoet
Black Lips is all about the boys who will straight up lie to your face; the poem kind of explores the early signs of a devastating explosion.
by Herr Bohn
The first known poet in history, Enheduanna, was an Iraqi woman. She wrote about Inanna on tablets in the cuneiform language. The interesting thing about her is that she had a position or title. It was “The keeper of the flame.” I think that if a poet should have any role at all, it should be (wherever and whenever) the same: “keeper of the flame.”
—Dunya Mikhail, from “New Directions Interview with Dunya Mikhail,” Cantos (April , 2010)
by Jason
Which would you choose? Olympic National Park, Washington
maybe i have been thinking with my heart far too long rather than my mind and i have been speaking from my soul rather than my mouth and i have been seeing with my bones rather than my eyes and trust me when i say i love you more than the air i inhale
k.m (via fluohrine)
Puerto Vallarta, MX.
You don’t get To walk In And out of someone’s Life at your own Leisure. People are not disposable. Love deeply Or don’t love at all.
Zienab Hamdan (via moonlyaffairs)
I couldn’t quite comprehend what betrayal was, but suddenly with your knife in my back - betrayal has never tasted so bittersweet.
j.b.r - 17.05.16 (via lucid-vissions)
Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them. I am so lonely in my glory.
Allen Ginsberg, “Transcription of Organ Music,” Howl (via millionen)
I will write about you until my hand aches and my heart does not.
purpl-reign (via wnq-writers)
Writing requires discipline, but disciplined writers are not necessarily prolific. Most good work gets produced over time, sometimes many years, allowing the writer to grow with the material, to allow her world, her command over craft, and her psychological maturity to coalesce at just the right moment to produce something of value. This process often involves dreadful periods of not writing, or, worse, periods of writing very badly, embarrassingly badly. As time passes in a writing life, the writer learns not to fear these arid periods. The words come back eventually. That’s the real discipline: to train the mind and heart into believing that words come back. … Be willing to wait. In the meantime, write when you don’t feel like it. If you can’t write, read.
Monica Wood, The Pocket Muse (masculine pronouns changed to feminine)
I needed to hear this today.
(via savetheteaboy)
And again today.
(via one-bite-at-a-time)
(See also: the Law of Undulations)
I am my lover. I am the one that tends my garden. I am the one I will always say goodnight to last.
Nicholas A Browne (via wnq-writers)
