Speak softly.


WHEN IT’S LIGHTER by Mason Shreve

Reblogged from contrarycate


WHEN IT’S LIGHTER by Mason Shreve

Reblogged from terrabyte-floppy-drive

Reblogged from luxwright


If you had said that 
I’d never lick an ash tray 

I would’ve trudged the extra flight of stairs
to drink cold tobacco spit just to prove
how far into hell I’d fallen without breaking a sweat
when the meat on my bones was certainly charbroiled 

but sense had a way of yanking me out by my matted hair
carrying the scent of bug wings blackened on blue zap lights
and even then perfect imprints of my knuckles 
hung like barrel monkeys from the shadows of my ribs
in trying to tame the misplaced blame cemented to 
a conscience sprouting grey mushrooms and mildew

spending long nights breaking the image of 
an emaciated Kraken that used calloused tendrils 
to constrict itself an image of what I could never be

always redressing smoldering bandages
but never finding the golden foundation of a full recovery.


Reblogged from tequila-in-a-wine-glass


Coffee in a flask, pseudo-hardened from a subconscious front
Adroit at warming hearts,
While keeping those same hearts restless and jittery until the following morning

Tequila in a wine glass, a sinful waste in the finest crystal
Adroit at turning a presumably classy evening into repentance the next day

Both having a detox like a sledge hammer to the skull

after the realization of acridity, after it is already too late

{ j.d.s }

Reblogged from songofanothersummer


The world has been
quiet of late
and I wonder where
she has been dreaming,
where her mind wanders
though her heart’s
still beating.

Reblogged from yodropthebiscuits

Reblogged from jecrisunpeu


you found you were not brave
the first time you needed to be

When Russia Fell

Reblogged from celineaguiii


Looking down,


slowly so

shoulders move

just so slightly.

Arms across

her torso

but she moves

them to her

crossed legs and

folds her hands


like a queen.

Narrowed eyes

as she focuses,

Right eyebrow

cocked with doubt,

lips parted

as she speaks,

“She fucked up.”

Reblogged from graphitepaperdreams


Where I Grew Up

The only things I know about New York
are the stories my father likes to tell
on nights when he’s had too much to drink.

Our Virginia home was painted with
the flickering light of the fireflies we’d chase
and my mother put the night sky on my ceiling.

Most of Goose Creek I blocked out
except for when my brother’s friend tried to
kiss me while we waited before school.

My best and worst memories belong to Charleston-
breaking into the abandoned lighthouse
and night drives wishing I wasn’t scared to leave.

And I smoked while watching the fireworks
illuminate the sky and reflect on the Pacific-
California was as short-lived as you and me.

save tennis

Reblogged from brightlightsloudnoises


never use the word
it’s the worst mistake you
can make

save tennis,

in literature,
death and

infer it

never put it out there
in plain sight

don’t you