What’s Closer To God: Thirst Or Confession?

Sober like a face slap, obvious as the morning after, I saw you for what you are: a woman, cruel and imperfect, a fighter who tried everything to protect her one and only heart, how it didn’t matter, it was torn fresh from its root anyway

Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz, excerpt from Lilith (via theoryoflostthings)

the dirty & the imbecile

my heart, falling victim to a kidnap my own head had devised,

cries a thousand fears under a flickering lamp.

my heart, freed from a crime my own head once orchestrated,

sings hallelujah in the rain.  

- @skinthepoet

I. Black and white, I dream of hands I’ve never felt, the ghost of lips trace over my skin and it almost feels like a promise if I clench my teeth hard enough. II. We are both breathing the same stardust from a galaxy away, every inhale an unspoken ‘I love you,’ every exhale an ‘I’m sorry, I love him more.’ III. The stars continue to burn but I am already ashes. You are forever Apollo, rising in the East and I am falling like lukewarm snowflakes. IV. You don’t sleep enough to dream of my hand against your throat, you begging me to make you mortal- you never will be. You will forget about this. V. I will not. VI. Cassandra warned me not to love you and if I clench my teeth hard enough, I can pretend I never did.

oh, well isn’t this a tragedy || O.L. (via poetbitesback)

What i’m learning is that growth is ugly. It’s not bubble baths and self-help books that teach you how to love yourself. It’s fighting, kicking and screaming against the self-doubt that weighs you down. It’s panicking at the possibility of failure while still moving forward anyway. It’s slowly peeling out of your skin and feeling the tenderness of a touch without armor. The process of growth is ugly, but it’s the product that makes it worthwhile.

a.m. // what i’m learning (via writingitdown)

the things we learn right before midnight

what's keeping you from sleeping?

nothing. i'm just not ready to hit the sack.

why's that?

you really want to know?

yep.

okay. but i don't want you to think i'm crazy or leave this bed running, alright?

i wouldn't do that.

right. okay. hmm. so, 24 years ago, on the eve of my birth, my mom decided to deliver her child in a graveyard. the city's farthest most forgotten graveyard. she's an artist, though; a lover of contrasts & a chaser of the dark.

oh

july 21st, lost in the depths of a summer night amid traces of grief, sorrow & dried petals, my mum gave birth to a baby she’d almost immediately hold between her arms. i don't remember this of course, but i've been told she murmured:

'hey, little one. i need you to think of death as your friend. a mutual. an ally. a confident.'

from that day on - my entire life, basically- i've never slept before midnight.

i stay still by the side of my bed, patiently waiting for my oldest friend to come sit by my side.

once he shows up, we tell each other how life treated us that day in our own sides of the realm.   we then hold hands & together, we end the life of yet another day.

- @skinthepoet

You are as innocent as a bathtub / full of bullets.

Margaret Atwood, “Backdrop Addresses Cowboy” (via mythaelogy)

i am afraid that if i open myself i will not stop pouring. (why do i fear becoming a river. what mountain gave me such shame.)

Jamie Oliveira, “Erosion” (via wordsnquotes)

I am pulling myself from the magician’s hat, night after night.

Guante, from A Love Song, A Death Rattle, A Battle Cry

Guante’s phenomenal collection of writing is available at the Button Store. Check it out today!

(via buttonpoetry)

Writing requires discipline, but disciplined writers are not necessarily prolific. Most good work gets produced over time, sometimes many years, allowing the writer to grow with the material, to allow her world, her command over craft, and her psychological maturity to coalesce at just the right moment to produce something of value. This process often involves dreadful periods of not writing, or, worse, periods of writing very badly, embarrassingly badly. As time passes in a writing life, the writer learns not to fear these arid periods. The words come back eventually. That’s the real discipline: to train the mind and heart into believing that words come back. … Be willing to wait. In the meantime, write when you don’t feel like it. If you can’t write, read.

Monica Wood, The Pocket Muse (masculine pronouns changed to feminine)

I needed to hear this today.

(via savetheteaboy)

And again today.

(via one-bite-at-a-time)

(See also: the Law of Undulations)