a s s i d u o u s l y

Black and orange,
Twirling joyfully in an eternal dance.
Yin and yang,
Dipping and swaying, and giggling in each other’s faces
Good, evil, everything in between
Represented in these silly koi
Whose glistening scales blind the eyes of men.
They’re swift in the water, Incapturable but beautiful in their evasiveness.
They shimmer, then vanish under the surface,
The only evidence of their existence: A single, small, frail bubble.

the lonely grave of paula schultz

 

7 months ago - 15

It’s like morphine, language is. A fearful habit to form: you become a bore to all who would otherwise cherish you. Of course, there is the chance that you may be hailed as a genius after you are dead long years, but what is that to you? There will still be high endeavor that ends, as always, with kissing in the dark, but where are you? Time? Time? Why worry about something that takes care of itself so well? You were born with the habit of consuming time. Be satisfied with that.

William Faulkner, Mosquitoes (via wwnorton)

(via iamonlyamaid)

7 months ago - 389

War

My forehead pounds fiercely, and the rabid innards of my mind strain against my shattering skull; 

My body shivers 

Shudders

Trembles

With the weight of my consciousness.

Shrieking in my ear, the blurs around me push and shove and dance,

Spurning me to dance with them

I close my eyes, whispering a swift “no” that only I can hear

But it’s too late and I’m tired of resisting.

The smoke in the air seeps through my defenses and slips into my nose,

Calming and seducing me;

And I’m falling and rising at the same time.

I’ve lost. 

But it feels good.

8 months ago

Emily's Collection: 30 Day Poetry Challenge

nadiasf:

30 Day Poetry Challenge

Day 1- Write a poem where each line starts with a letter from your first name (an acrostic). It can be about anything, but it should not be about you or your name.

Day 2- Who was the last person you texted? Write a five line poem to that person.

Day 3- Find…

(via ohyegrimlady)

8 months ago - 1340

Fool’s Gold


His stubby, dirt-caked fingers dig fervently,

Digging deep into the soft flesh of the earth.

Flesh gives way to bone, the hardness of a chest.

The hardness scrapes against his nails and he grins

A sly grin that reveals his yellowing teeth;

A yellow matching the gold hidden inside.

His chest rises and falls with anxiety —

Anxiety of uncovering riches;

Riches belonging not to him but the dead,

The long lost dead of ages and ages passed,

Their still-present souls protecting their treasure.

A treasure he reaches for gluttonously,

His gluttonous sins reflected in his hands,

His fat hands and his stubby, dirt-caked fingers.

His fingers touch the gold and he freezes still,

Frozen on his hands and knees as the gold spreads,

Spreads from his fingers to his hands to his arms,

From his arms to his chest to his face and hair.

The hair all over his skin stands on end,

Standing on end as his molecules are changed,

Changed from skin and bone and flesh to solid gold.

8 months ago

Don’t get so tolerant that you tolerate intolerance.

Bill Maher

8 months ago - 64

Extremely long day ahead, but I’m glad I started up this blog and got it out of the way. I refollowed only my favorite people too (you guys know who you are), so now I can actually enjoy scrolling through my dashboard again.

Anyway! If you guys want to send me some writing prompts, I’d really appreciate it.

8 months ago
weissewiese: by Stephen Dobyns

weissewiese:

by Stephen Dobyns

(via iamonlyamaid)

8 months ago - 202

Fits and starts. 

That’s how it begins, or so says my creative writing professor. 

8 months ago

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