the only way
to feel
poetry
is to cut your
vein
open
and fill it
with
ink

  • ~click~
  • "I gave you things I wasn’t sure I even had."
    Miranda July (via satans-ghost)

    23 July, 2014

    "and I know I speak like my heart was broken last night
    even though it happened last January,
    when I thought I was numb from the cold
    but I was numb from you
    and sometimes everything you left behind cuts into
    my tongue and I find myself choking up your name
    even though it’s been 3 months since you’ve called
    and I’m not sure how your voice still plays in my head
    when I can’t even remember how it sounds
    and there are scars and bruises all over me that I
    could’ve sworn had faded but everyone looks at me
    like I’m about to collapse
    and sometimes I kiss boys who grab me like they
    want to break me and I let them because there’s
    nothing left to break
    and sometimes they taste like you
    and I used to smile like I wasn’t empty
    but you’re stuck in my head
    and in my heart
    and underneath my fingernails
    and I’m so sorry but you can’t stay here"
    I’m a collection of unsaid goodbyes and thrown up 3 AM “I miss you’s” (via extrasad)

    23 July, 2014

    bajablastthirstblog:

    AM VHS edits: Side A

    (Side B: x)

    "A woman from the audience asks: ‘Why were there so few women among the Beat writers?’ and [Gregory] Corso, suddenly utterly serious, leans forward and says: “There were women, they were there, I knew them, their families put them in institutions, they were given electric shock. In the ’50s if you were male you could be a rebel, but if you were female your families had you locked up."

    Stephen Scobie, on the Naropa Institute’s 1994 tribute to Allen Ginsberg

    (via laurannemarie)

    15 July, 2014

    oxyqn:

-

    oxyqn:

    -

    "As for me, I am a watercolor.
    I wash off."
    Anne Sexton, “To My Lover, Returning to His Wife,” from Love Poems (via lifeinpoetry)

    15 July, 2014

    "

    I sped around the twists and turns of our hometown,
    you in the next seat,
    begging me to slow down.
    I saw these moments on a movie screen,
    started laughing,
    fearlessness gleaming in my eyes
    spouting some shit about
    not getting in a car with a girl
    who is not afraid to die.

    It sounds morbid but when I think of my mangled body
    in the wreckage of my car,
    it doesn’t matter how many kisses you plant
    on my gossamer skin.
    That broken, bloody mess of bone
    and flesh and life and love
    is the only one my mind can see me in.

    You told me that your heart was racing,
    I said, “I have a habit of doing that to boys.”
    I can suck a thousand dicks
    but nothing would ever make me feel as alive
    as seeing your life flash in front of your eyes.

    It was then, I realised,
    I have some serious issues.

    It was when I couldn’t let you leave
    that I noticed how my stitches
    were poking out
    like signposts
    and with one touch, it hurt,
    but you healed me.

    You are alcohol on open wounds,
    You are breaking the skin to cover the bruise,
    You are anaesthetic that doesn’t work
    And a scalpel, unsharpened when used.

    But your kisses remind me
    that the road is not my home,
    and my grave will not lie
    in a metaphor for my life.

    The most sober thought I had
    whilst your fingers touched my face
    was that I belong to nothing
    but my foot on the brake.

    "
    Drive safe by fighting-spiders (via fighting-spiders)

    15 July, 2014