#poem excerpt

[lucidloving]

Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence // Ada Limón, "Lies About Sea Creatures" // Sherita Walker // @itsbaditsgood // Richard Siken, "I Had a Dream About You" // Richard Siken, "You Are Jeff" (8) // Richard Siken, "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out" // @_demarmol on Instagram // Anne Sexton, "The Touch"

[die-rosastrasse]

~ Margaret Atwood, from "Variation on the World Sleep"

[petaltexturedskies]

Sylvia Plath, from "Soliloquy of The Solipsist"

[words-and-coffee]

too much to love. too much to handle. i am too much. i am too much. and somehow i will still never be enough.

Trista Mateer, Persephone Made Me Do It: Fear

[iamktb206]

“All Thats’s Left To Tell” by Clementine Von Radics, from Mouthful of Forevers.

[edwardian-girl-next-door]

"Summer is growing old and everything is flowing into a single melancholy murmur"

~ Tomas Tranströmer, from "The Cuckoo"

[feral-harvest]

— Carolina Outcrop

[dame-nostalgique]

Experimenting with poetry and embroidery 🦋🕯️

[eananoor]

Eana Noor, The Sacred Hour.

[fatimaamerbilal]

fatima aamer bilal, except from all hunger is, is love.

[text id: it was inevitable. // you could have marched towards me, parading your teeth like hands, tearing all the meaningless flesh apart, turning my ribs inside, and taking a bite out of my heart—// and i would have done nothing, not when i couldn’t look past your eyes. // so warm. even the sun yearns to bask in them. // sick. sick. sick. how i would have waited for you to take another bite. then another. another. devour me whole. all hunger is, is love.]

[thegentleintellectual]

-Kaveh Akbar

[lucidloving]

Richard Siken, "The Torn-up Road" // Lora Mathis, "If There's A Way Out I'll Take It"

[die-rosastrasse]

- Pablo Neruda, from Sonnet XVII

[petaltexturedskies]

Suddenly you burst into tears; there is simply nothing else to do.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, from "An Ancient Gesture"

[words-and-coffee]

I’m making nothing happen but my own drool, drooling, gaping, chomping at the ing ing ing. I make a nothing that whirs into being, feedback looping into a buzz saw of nothing, dome of nothing. So big it rises. Big enough to keep my people safe from the catastrophes that rain from planes. Before each catastrophe, a moment in which my people are safe. Refuge of nothing. Refuge of uneventfulness. First days, then days, and days. In a dead tree’s heart, an empty space. In the space, a small animal, useless beautiful animal, stretching its wings, wings, wings. . .

Franny Choi, The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On - Upon Learning That Some Korean War Refugees Used Partially Detonated Napalm Canisters as Cooking Fuel

[paperouroboros]

Excerpt from Paper Ouroboros (Poem)