Because its only intangible ideas

littlehonesties:

#209

It is 3pm and there
are people the world over
completing their days that
don’t know about the existence
of me or you.

But I can count all the seconds
you cross my thoughts and
trace all the places
your lips touched my skin.

And they have no idea
that this is the first
love poem
I wrote in months that
didn’t make me want to cry
when I hung up my pen.

motherfuckgepetto:

literature is always and only an attempt at truth
and truth always and only goes to the highest bidder;
you, yes you in the blue
with the funny hat.
the whole world is a stage and the roof
is falling
the roof is falling,
ages of caged chicken eggs has brought to the fore
the promises of our modern market economy;
obama could grow wings and fly to mars if he really wanted,
he told me in this dream i had
when i was seven
when heaven was somewhere between hell
and the home of the school yard bully.
analyze the importance of the politico-aesthetic in contemporary poetry
by branding swastikas across your nipples
and urinating on your local mosque.
the internet saved my life and killed my brother;
three cheers for third-wave feminism.
i whispered shakespeare in her ear
and she fainted; the whole world is a stage
and aristotle would be ashamed.

enjambing:

Moths fly toward burning bulbs not because they’re drunk
with love or exhausted from flight, wanting to wait out
the pain in their wings, as if waiting was something warm
they could wrap themselves around. They fly and die
simply because they cannot see what we see.
Instead they see stars off in the distance, the same stars
we long ago used to navigate the darkness
we still know nothing about. It’s hard to imagine
what we once needed to know to know where we were.
Without depth, with color, the moths look to the light
until it calls to them. We are good at thinking we can stay.
We are good at finding hurt. I live in a mapped city
that keeps expanding like regret. When I look out the window
I see a house so close I can hear a toilet flush.
At night we take black lights and hunt scorpions
stuck to our stucco walls. I walk around darkening rooms
not in use, but I cannot stop the sun
or streetlights from shining in. We are all aglow.
I don’t want to think about the sun burning
out or the billion small deaths I continue to cause.
Even in the desert, a place whose name I learned
to spell by the sweet treat of its opposite, the extra s
demanding more, even after all these years of genetics,
of rock slides, of canyons cut deep and persistent
as a heart, moths spin in circles toward their stars.

poetrybomb:

Let me be drunk

next to you

so we can take turns

sip by sip

and laugh at each other quietly

in the backseat of our friend’s car

parked next to some abandoned field somewhere

because we had to pull over for a cigarette

let me pass out

next to you

so we can beat those lonely feelings

of passing out on the couch

after a long night of walking home alone

and our friends can draw on our faces

with a sharpie they found in the glove compartment

as a consolation for carrying us home

let us be free

to love something

as much as these moments

of nights like these in the backseat

because we know

our friends’ lungs

will not last forever

and neither will the gas tank

–therightkindofexplosion.tumblr.com

thetargetbird:

I say “blue” but mean beautiful looking.
Making words imitate living things
implies the minorest immortality that isn’t
mine but could very well be. Purple
stands for “Please, your restful
purple little eggs” and there’s got to be
a better way to keep the animal in us,
because the ghosts aren’t enough.

The pink ink stands against the rim
of night dressed in finest fur, I think
brown but mean bears, really, and owls,
and werewolves. It looks like blowing up
the moon was the right decision to make

but I’m still waiting for that darker
darkness that’s passing over us as a form
of property, striving to reach a mythical
point where it unfurls like a bandage,
completely swaddling the desire to name it.

-C.S. Henderson

brightlightsloudnoises:

she said
she’s crazy for people
that wear their medals
on the inside,
that blush well
past their
youth,
that can stay silent
for hours,
days,
months,
years even,
and then suddenly
ask you about the
temperature
of your coffee
in the most
off-handed and
sincere way,

she said she’s crazy
for the night
in october
and
when people
who deserve to
win
win
and when
losers smile
with
an honest
grin
and
say something
truly funny,

she said she
was crazy
and I asked her
if she really knew
anybody who hadn’t talked
for a year

and she said no

I took off my
socks
and laid down
and she laid down
next to me,

and she said
goodnight

louispoem:

every thought you have

every decision you make

every breath you take

creates another,

relatively negative,

universe

in which everything is the same

except the choice

you didn’t make

thetargetbird:

I say “blue” but mean beautiful looking.
Making words imitate living things
implies the minorest immortality that isn’t
mine but could very well be. Purple
stands for “Please, your restful
purple little eggs” and there’s got to be
a better way to keep the animal in us,
because the ghosts aren’t enough.

The pink ink stands against the rim
of night dressed in finest fur, I think
brown but mean bears, really, and owls,
and werewolves. It looks like blowing up
the moon was the right decision to make

but I’m still waiting for that darker
darkness that’s passing over us as a form
of property, striving to reach a mythical
point where it unfurls like a bandage,
completely swaddling the desire to name it.

-C.S. Henderson

brightlightsloudnoises:

she said
she’s crazy for people
that wear their medals
on the inside,
that blush well
past their
youth,
that can stay silent
for hours,
days,
months,
years even,
and then suddenly
ask you about the
temperature
of your coffee
in the most
off-handed and
sincere way,

she said she’s crazy
for the night
in october
and
when people
who deserve to
win
win
and when
losers smile
with
an honest
grin
and
say something
truly funny,

she said she
was crazy
and I asked her
if she really knew
anybody who hadn’t talked
for a year

and she said no

I took off my
socks
and laid down
and she laid down
next to me,

and she said
goodnight

poetrybomb:

Let me be drunk

next to you

so we can take turns

sip by sip

and laugh at each other quietly

in the backseat of our friend’s car

parked next to some abandoned field somewhere

because we had to pull over for a cigarette

let me pass out

next to you

so we can beat those lonely feelings

of passing out on the couch

after a long night of walking home alone

and our friends can draw on our faces

with a sharpie they found in the glove compartment

as a consolation for carrying us home

let us be free

to love something

as much as these moments

of nights like these in the backseat

because we know

our friends’ lungs

will not last forever

and neither will the gas tank

–therightkindofexplosion.tumblr.com

tristamateer:

Forgive me; I am young.
I do not yet understand the way wanting is intensified by absence,
but I do—
I do understand the way I am intensified by you.

“Understand” is perhaps the wrong word
because I am not familiar with its reasoning or its inner workings,
but I know it.
I feel it.
Nothing matters but you.

You are the card in my spokes,
clicking out a beat I could never find on my own.
I am peddling out a rhythm no one can keep up with
but you.

eternallycoilingserpent:

I feel the infection growing stronger
The chemicals pour through my veins
I am no longer so equally balanced
since you have corroded my frame
I need a injection, a booster shot
to vanquish this gruesome pain
I have watched my skin deteriorate
in the eternally pouring acid rain

If I could just start all over
I would turn back all time
and erase all of the days
that I had called you “mine”
You are but a fatal syringe
I am at the end of the line
Your tongue is but sandpaper
to your words, terpentine

whootwhooot:

Most days I wake up and ask,
“Why did I do this to myself?”

I look around the room for a few minutes and lay in the silence, and most days I can answer myself.

I want to feel the highest of highs, I want to feel the lowest of lows, I want to know how it is to float with the stars, and I want to know how it is to keep moving past the darkness, because I want to struggle, I want to love, I want to give meaning, I want to be an impact, I want to take a few punches even if its my own hand swinging it. I want to feel.

And some mornings, I wake up and ask myself the same question, and can’t help but hate myself that day; for all the choices I’ve made, for all the missed oppertunities, for almost everything I have ever done in my life.

That’s the beauty of life I guess, you never know when it will end, so you don’t ever want to stop. Todays mistakes could be tomorrows mistakes, or it could be tomorrows fixes, it is really however you feel is right.

And I think that’s what gets me out of bed.

manfrommontreal:

Poetry is sometimes difficult
to interpret and even more
challenging to dissect.

You need steady hands,
a warm heart,
some even say a sense of humour,
but above all
one needs good eyes
to see all the angles,
and the worst part of writing
poetry is that you can’t
be afraid of the blood,
or the gaping veins.  

Now if you have all those pieces
together in one person, then
poetry is a thing of beauty
it’s akin to open heart surgery,
and some even say just as deadly. 

poetdreamer:

There is a silence growing within me
Consuming my soul from within.
I open my mouth to speak
And my heart falters as bad as my stutter.
I take up the pen and the ink dries
And the page remains unstained
The keyboard sits quietly waiting
The click-clack longing to be expressed
But all I can do is stare into the silence
To say the words I should say
To those who need the words said
And there is only silence,
Dark brooding silence…
Evil consuming silence…
I know the silence is killing the poet within
I know the silence is consuming my soul.
Some days I want to scream to someone
Talk with me! Save me from the silence!
And thank them until dawn for saving me.
Other times I just want to fade away
And let the silence grow and fester
Until lungs do not move and the heart lies still
But I cannot… I cannot let it pass so easily.
Though I see myself the twin of the monster
His words beat true within my veins:
“Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish,
is dear to me, and I will defend it.”