"I think people would be happier if they admitted things more often. In a sense we are all prisoners of some memory, or fear, or disappointment—we are all defined by something we can’t change."
Simon Van Booy
, from “The Illusion of Separateness” (via hiddenshores
"My backseat is lined with
Mcdonald’s bags because I can’t
remember the last time I cooked, and now
I have to throw away all the expired food in the fridge
This is a waste, I am a waste.
One day I will cook, one day I will listen to myself,
one day I will stop skipping meals for naps.
I called into work and canceled on my friends
I don’t know how to do anything else except for
look sick and busy.
I get tired.
I get t-ired of taking care of myself.
I get t-i-red of being someone.
Pretty girl, smart girl, skinny girl, happy girl,
if I can wear it on my mouth
I can cover what’s in the heart.
I am lies, and people are believers.
My mom’s voice rings in my head and she’s saying,
“Nothing else matters as long as
your face is pretty.”
I know this is a metaphor for how much I hide
even from myself.
I am either too avoidant or too indulgent
I am not good at loving people,
I am good at pretending.
This isn’t a pity story,
this is about how I don’t fight.
This is about the difference between who I was
last year and right now,
and how there is too much.
I take everything to heart
and I follow emotional conversations with “I don’t care.”
I am paradoxes,
I am defense mechanisms,
I can’t be broken if
you don’t hurt me.
is still art.
Loneliness is living alone in a studio
miles away from all my friends,
and telling others it’s my castle
amidst the worn down neighborhood where I dream about
how everything comes alive.
But the only thing coming alive is the
death of me.
Loneliness is sleeping fifteen hours a day
and calling it the practice of lucid dreaming.
I wanted to write about how I am the sea
despite all of this,
despite how much of a coward I am,
(that is there something left of me)
but then I remembered that I always
turn into a tsunami."
"Why a Poet’s Mind is Not Beautiful,"
"I remember someone saying that all human creativity is a desperate attempt to occupy the brief space or endless gap between birth and death.) We would like to think that art remakes us in some way, deepens us, makes us ‘better’ people."
it’s okay because there are always love poems to read, always other worlds to be in, loving them from far away, living in them close by. this is about how we get lost in the words that we wish were ours, this is about the songs that set the mood for something other than right now. this is how you drown out the noise. this is how i turn the space between you and me into art. this is not a metaphor for you, this is a metaphor for a poor excuse.
my roommates’ dog is just the most adorable thing. for starters, she is pudgy beagle. often times, my roommates (who are a couple) spend time in their room with the door closed, their dog is in there as well, but then she scratches their door, hinting she wants to be let out. she doesn’t have any particular reason to want to be out here in the common area except to roam, and my roommate tilts his head and says, “huh, i thought you wanted to go to the bathroom. silly dog just wants to hang out here.” moments pass, and she is scratching at their door from the outside wanting to go back in. she’s so emotional, so alive with so many wants. it gives me enormously fuzzy feelings because she is so human.
(Source: pushthemovement, via commovente)
i love that libraries are both the most ancient and modern places
you’ve made yourself into an orphan who
builds home in people
who have private property signs.
stop loving people
can’t have them.
there are some people
that won’t answer the door
no matter how much you wait
for them to understand.
is not poetic.
people will not always
you will learn this the hard way
because you think other people’s homes
are more beautiful
if a woman
has enough time
to put on eyeliner,
more than enough time
to love you.