Speak softly.

Outpouring

Reblogged from raisethecurve

raisethecurve:

It broke me to give up on you — everywhere

I tried to run, I stepped on shattered glass.
So I stood still, watching you go on, and
a glistening green-tinted wall piled up

in your absence. My heart has healed.

Tomorrow, I will climb this wall.
I will rip myself open anew,

in spite of you. Tomorrow.

Reblogged from raisethecurve

esn13:

Intently, I stare out of the window, my gaze fixed
like set gelatin. I trespass on the outside

without leaving the bus. This strange intensity
is what I wish I was known for. Alas, I am not. 

I am
two knees pressed between strangers, 

two shoulders quite the same. Their heat
shapeless on my arms and legs. I keep my

neck turned and tap on my bag. The three
times we cross the Yamuna. 

River, oh river. With nests of large, 
green leaves and plastic bags

necklacing its edges. In my mind, I undress
and enter its mouth. 

When I leave, I am covered in the distinct
smell of salt. This strange intensity is what I wish

I was known for. 
Alas, I am not. 

It is morningtime. Intently, I stare out of the window. 
By afternoon, I forget; am forgotten.

"

somewhere
there is a women in China holding a black umbrella so she
won’t taste the salt of the rain when the sky begins to weep,

there is a 17 year old girl who smells like pomegranates and has summer air tight on her naked skin, wrapping around her scars
like veins in a bloody garden, who won’t make it past tomorrow,

there is a young man, who buys yellow flowers for the woman
in apartment 84B, who learned braille when he realized she
couldn’t read his poetry about her white neck and mint eyes

there are people watching films,
making love for the first time, opening mail with the
heading of ‘i miss you’, cooking noodles with
organic spices and red sauces, buying lemon detergent,
ignoring ‘do not smoke’ signs, painting murals
of his lips in abandoned warehouses, chewing
the words ‘i love you’ over and over again, swallowing
phone numbers and forgotten birthdays, eating
strawberry pies, drinking white wine off of each
others open mouths, ignoring the telephone,
reading this poem

some is thinking
i’m alone
somewhere
someone finally understands
they never really
were

"

Reblogged from itsmariana-darling

poems from my uncles graves (via floranymph)

(Source: irynka)

Reblogged from beneath-a-lonely-place

(Source: hypnoticwinter)

to soothe eliot and auden and pound; the worst is nearly over

Reblogged from moderateclimates

moderateclimates:

And if, like Yeats,
I loom: a scepter
in the South of France
to warn you of the moon—

Then breathe,
unfriends, breathe.
We are excised:
but poetry is
mysticism unraveled.

I am simply Ghost,
haunting by the wings.

You have the stage.

Let the sunrise
sing.

Oscillations

Reblogged from textbookpoetry

textbookpoetry:

Imagine the force.

A pendulum called stable 

tends to return to a simple particle

that is free only initially,

at rest. Reversing its motion, returning 

in the absence, repeats endlessly,

plotted of smoothly joined time is called 

turning points. Two equivalent ways

must always act, because mathematics is simple 

and we try to pull the atoms but if we were to stretch 

the spring, we reduce to that of problems common 

to our goal.

from Physics by Resnick, et al. Vol 1. 5 ed. New York: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2002. Print.

Atonal Melody

Reblogged from textbookpoetry

textbookpoetry:

Consider when you fall asleep

messages received by broad

regions, widespread patterns

of meandering connections— more or less

excitable, more or less synchronous,

and so on.

Like the lyrics or melody of a song

but necessarily vague.

It is clear, however,

that how electrically active they are,

individually and in combination,

is available for release,

selectively. 

from Neuroscience: Exploring the Brain. 3rd ed. Mark F. Bear, et al. Philadelphia: Lippincott Williams & Wilkins, 2007. Print. 

Reblogged from falling-into-hell

falling-into-hell:

Its been months
But I’m
Still
Pulling the weeds you planted in my skin
I’ve been waiting
And waiting
And waiting
But the flowers have yet to bloom

Operator

Reblogged from justcallmeharper

justcallmeharper:

Wing-Flutter mammal 

        talkative

unthing

       from a tongue all unhoused

where next

   among voices

uninterrupted by

its

   force.  

Who

Reblogged from loqui

loqui:

Whoever you are,
I am there with you too—
a lot more sure
of my heart
than I am
of my footing.