and i leave my blog to do the describing.
Clementine von Radics, “To Girls Like Me, With Hearts Like Kindling”
Darlings, sometimes love will come to you like a fire
to a forest. When it does, be braver than I was. Just leave.
Take only what you can carry. No tears, no second thoughts.
You have hands like tinder boxes, the smallest spark
will kill you.Get in the car. Take water to the maps. Avoid gas stations.
Don’t look at the flames dancing in the rear view mirror.
Go to new cities, climb on the rooftops and slow dance with
your coldest memories. Wallpaper your new home with every
dusty, desperate love letter you swore you’d never send.Find a stranger with sharp edges and uncharted hips.
Press your stories into their skin and forget you ever knew
his name. Just promise you won’t think of embers or smoke.
Even when there is ash in your hair. Even when there is soot
in your lungs.this poem scares me to no end.
My poor adopted state takes so much guff. Some people cling to an ‘idea of Florida,’ that our sidewalks are split between befuddled senior citizens and topless Spring Breakers, that we all wake in the morn, do body shots off each other, feed a tourist to our pet alligators, swing by the painkiller clinic to pick up our groceries, and then ride the public airboat system to our jobs in the thong district.
― William Bowers on Florida (via artistsuffer)
(Source: lligv)
I wish I wrote the way I thought
Obsessively
Incessantly
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should
Obsessively
Incessantly
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should
― Benedict Smith, “I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought” (via growing-orbits)
I am writing to say I will write more when the answers come.
Today there are bombs at marathons. They blow through and
leave holes full of questions. Today I am mad at my skin for
keeping me from the rest of the world.
I wanted to stop writing love poems until I realized everything
ever written is a love poem, or at least I think so. It’s all one
big desperate bellow to the skyline and a whisper into his hair
as he is trying to go to sleep.
I knew a girl when I was sixteen who had a laugh like music.
I remember when she told me “I think I’ll go to Boston. I think
I’ll start over”
Today there are bombs at marathons. They blow through and
leave holes full of questions. Today I am mad at my skin for
keeping me from the rest of the world.
I wanted to stop writing love poems until I realized everything
ever written is a love poem, or at least I think so. It’s all one
big desperate bellow to the skyline and a whisper into his hair
as he is trying to go to sleep.
I knew a girl when I was sixteen who had a laugh like music.
I remember when she told me “I think I’ll go to Boston. I think
I’ll start over”
― Clementine von Radics, A Bellow To The Skyline (via clementinevonradics)
Day 14: A song that you would love played at your wedding
Nat King Cole, L.O.V.E.
My favorite song!
