Look.
A look is worth a thousand words
It can say I love you when all you feel is hate
It can reveal hate when your lips say I love you
The best look is one that’s says
Everything is ok
We’re still here
Were still us
Tonight.
How can you walk out on
Me throwing myself
At you while my long
Tears fill the buckets
At your feet
How can your ruthless
Heart not feel sorrow
When my tears are
Calling out for
Your love
How are we still a
Struggle when
The hardest
Part
Was
Done
These are the shoes I got married in almost 10 months ago.
I took a picture of the bottoms of them because the soles are more important to me than anything else. I am no expert on marriage yet, by a long shot. All I know for sure is that marriage isn’t polish and satin and resale value. It’s wear and tear.
(It’s withstanding wear and tear—joyfully!—for longer than you ever thought you’d want to.)
(It’s being willing to re-sole if necessary, to keep walking, to accumulate a thin layer of soil, to relish the blemishes.)
The problem with poets is that they’re damaged goods, they spell out
their disabilities with emotionally stirred ink, they wear labels that classify
them as defective humans, they write poetry with scars across their
compositions. These people see the gorgeousness in everything, the
raw…
Reality of dreams.
The dreams of you and I
Have never been so real
The anticipation of reconciliation
Never was so promising
But now that you and I are here my love
The reality of dreams is far more challenging
From tear filled words and red roses on the bed
Now come swords and overstated words so uninspiring
From future plans of picket fences and success
Our time is now expiring
I don’t believe your promises
And I don’t believe your dreams
You’ve trapped me here
And inspired lifelong fears
You’ve mastered the role
As victim of your circumstance
But I see through your facade
And now proclaim my acquiescence
Little miss sunshine
I’m a real loser.
Loneliness is so frightening that I’d rather suffer in hell together than be brave in heaven, alone.
Boomerang.
“Life is a boomerang” he said
Speaking to the one who makes his bed
His words like shattered glass
Matter less now that he has broke, at last
He speaks to her of lifelong indiscretions
Like a man who doesn’t care about possessions
His calming voice distracts her from the emptiness he speaks
As if the other men who’ve laid inside these sheets
Are nothing more than actors in a play
Because he knows inside, that one fine day
That boomerang will hook itself right back
And break the heart she may have lacked
Causing tears to form where they were not
And she will see life from where he sat
Sometimes we expect more from others because we would be willing to do that much for them.
(via nuithibou)
You are the full moon,
and you bring out the
beastly wanton sensual
animal that lurks within…
I have pretty words, and
I have kind hands, and
I act like the gentleman
that I wear the clothes of..
But when you bring your
decadent full moon soul
within my orbit you make
me moan…
—Oscar Wilde — http://myspacetobe.tumblr.com/
wasted.
one day this life will end and
ill be left with memories of
this sunken-in couch
i call home.
a lifetime ago I
lived and felt
things.
now i sit and
eat things,
watch things,
numb parts,
of me.
that lived before.
Somewhere in the midst of my forgettings,
I remember how I felt the first
time you said ‘I miss you’ while I cried
red tears onto white rugs and drank
from a shattered, stained glass
And instead of aching from a memory, I
smiled with fragile teeth — potential to
break the reigns that held me back
from screeching and gnawing my way out of
a picturesque vortex
But I kept myself clenched
and I lived quietly in reminiscence
