Writing It Down Is The Easy Part, It’s Saying It Aloud That Gets Me Every Time.

Peaky Blinders

We are what our thoughts have made us; so take care about what you think. Words are secondary. Thoughts live; they travel far.

Swami Vivekananda (via wordsnquotes)

View from the top of Alberta Falls.  Estes Park, Colorado

Geneva, Switzerland

I’ve always put your happiness before mine and maybe that’s why I’m sad. I’ve put everyone’s happiness before mine expecting someone to do the same and no one ever did.

un-mas-ked (via wordsnquotes)

One day someone will.

I know you don’t exactly have a way with words that you couldn’t possibly understand the storm that washed the thoughts from my mind or the distraction of worrying about my cheeks blushing when you lean in to whisper when there is no one within earshot i can’t possibly express on paper that feeling of taking a breath, of the moment in suspension right before you lose your balance that burns within my stomach when I catch you looking at me like that without warning there are so many words in the english language and no matter how many times I describe the warmth of your fingers or the fluster of nothing on my lips i cannot fathom us into poetry i am a poet and you do not make sense to me I cannot describe you as a blooming flower, unfurling to reveal the deepest parts of yourself because you would only laugh at that I cannot describe you in hyperboles or words or metaphors and I am a poet so that makes me want to scream my throat raw and rip apart the paper and words that flood from my fingertips messily that is the only way i can describe us and somewhat feel satisfied in the way I always seek satisfaction in words to write poetry about us is to write in a dead language to write poetry about us is the frustration in watching you expose the bruises on your jaw and cling onto your dignity while you whisper how reckless you’ve been into my shoulder I cannot bandage your pride; I cannot compose you into a sonnet I can write every delicate detail of drowning in a golden clawed bathtub or sitting in sunlight with flowers woven behind my ears but the truth is that each image i conjure isn’t simple enough because we are not an epic simile and your hands are not actually fire burning at my cheeks they are just hands I can write about myself I can condense myself into a neat placement of words but you I cannot describe you even if I spoke in hieroglyphics or braille I was once told that despite how beautiful, language is flawed And I did not believe that one bit Until you looked at me with an expression That I could not find a metaphor for you are strictly tangible, only flesh and crooked front teeth and that is why my heart will soon fracture for I can either write us onto paper or I can silently love you

ochredeity, ”To the boy I love”  (via wordsnquotes)

Words cannot describe.

Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you. You must travel it by yourself. It is not far. It is within reach. Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know. Perhaps it is everywhere—on water and land.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (via bookmania)

Though I may seem at times somewhat distant from you, through the gray mist of my own moods, I am never far; my thoughts always circle around you.

Friedrich Nietzsche (via wordsnquotes)

You are on my mind

I went away in my head, into a book. That was where I went whenever real life was too hard or too inflexible.

Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane  (via wordsnquotes)

Books save lives