#poems about my life

[naeemajusthasthoughts]

Whispers of the Broken

I've kept my truth too close to my heart. If ever asked; the lies would spew affecting everything in its path, holding my emotions apart I created my lonely tower out of all my broken parts.

All alone in my ever wonder I lied when I spoke of my lover, honestly, there was never ever none just a lonely heart solving a sum, unknown to the depths of my lungs my heart will never be young.

If I ever told you my secrets I promise you, you'll run. Apart from broken, I will succumb I will be resolved in my attempts grappling with a truth unkempt. And then… I will know, that my mind was always right.

[horreurscopes]

i like my body when it is with your body.

[akindplace]

I have loved in silence before

But it will not do.

Love exists to be poured

To be looked at, to be heard, to drink from.

Here, have a glass of this wonder

Tell me how it tastes of something vulnerable.

I have loved despite the fear of losing.

I have loved despite (and in spite) of death

I still keep loving even from afar.

If the border that separates us

Is one I haven’t crossed yet,

You still exist in a way - as you live in my heart.

Love is never wasted,

And mine is ever-flowing,

A river finding its way to your ocean.

[butw0rldenough]

— Mary Oliver, Felicity

[bodega-catto]

If you die,

I die.

But if I die,

eat properly,

get enough sleep.

Meet new people.

Live a happy life.

And when you think of me occasionally,

Remember that I will love you,

for eternity.

Via~ fluffy_floppy_friday (on Tiktok)

[wwxsflutesolo]

"Chuuya. Come to your senses. Our fate will not end in a place like this. Because you and I are destined to—"

@/kedreeva// ernest hemingway - the old man and the sea// death cab for cutie - summer years// unknown// unknown// lidia yuknavitch - the chronology of water: a memoir// richard siken - saying your names// taylor swift - gorgeous// unknown// victor hugo - les miserables// jeanette winterson - lighthousekeeping// sylvia Plath - lady lazarus// margaret atwood - power politics// tory adkisson - Anecdote of the Pig//richard siken - planet of love, wishbone// ethel cain - hard times// margaret atwood - variations on the word love

[casualavocados]

You know what's out there? A series of higher tones. It's arranged by nature. It's governed by the laws of physics of the whole universe. It's an overtone, it's an energy, it's a wavelength. And if you're not riding it, good lordy, you'll never hear it.

AUGUST RUSH (2007) dir. Kirsten Sheriden

[sunncean]

Frank Dicksee’s “La Belle Dame sans Merci” but make it Jurdan 🍁✨

[thehermitsacedia]

Le sang coule à longs flots de sa poitrine ouverte ; En vain il a des mers fouillé la profondeur ; L'océan était vide et la plage déserte ; Pour toute nourriture il apporte son cœur. […] Et, regardant couler sa sanglante mamelle, Sur son festin de mort il s'affaisse et chancelle, Ivre de volupté, de tendresse et d'horreur.

The blood runs in slow waves from his open chest In vain has he plumbed the depths of the seas The Ocean is empty and the shore deserted To provide food for all he offers his heart. […] And, watching his bloody breast drop On his death-feast he sinks and staggers Drunk on pleasure, on tenderness and horror.

-Alfred de Musset, La Nuit de Mai

[decisions-at-3am]

I will never get used to How gently you treat me. As if I were fragile as glass, My existence lacking solidity.

[stickmenyaoi]

about absence; presence. Lover; Warrior

Inspired by.

[moralcandy]

fifteen things that don't come back, by charlie slimecicle:

number one. the paper airplane you and your daughter throw at your husband while his back is turned in the kitchen, the two of you hiding behind the counter as you snicker quietly when he stops humming and yelps a curse as he turns around with a faux angry expression and a poorly-hidden smile.

number two. the glass your daughter broke trying to grab it from the cabinet on her tippy-toes. you didn't look over until you heard the glass shatter against the kitchen floor, too preoccupied with grabbing the jug of cold orange juice from the fridge to notice until it was too late. golden, afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the both of you from the open window as you swept it up while she stood to the side with a sheepish expression.

number three. your husband's soft shirt he let you borrow when you said you couldn't find your own but really you just quickly shoved yours under the bed when he wasn't looking. you absently noted that it smelled like him. your lips curved into a slight smile without input. your foot shoved your shirt under the bed a little bit farther.

number four. the pictures you took of your daughter and niece, hugging eachother as they posed for the camera, the photo incinerated into ash when you blew up your house. you frantically dug through your daughter's chest afterwards, soot covering your hands as you searched for the photograph. you did not find it.

number five. your niece.

number six. the feeling of a cold glass of wine held tipsily in your hand, the waterdrop of condensation slipping down the glass at the same pace your tears did down your cheeks. you downed the alcohol until there was nothing left except a burning feeling and a lump in your throat. the bartender did not give you another drink.

number seven. your friend, the one who used to laugh hysterically with you as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders before he began to scream at you while he wrapped his hands around your neck. he pushed you into the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth and the feeling of wet dirt on your skin as you absently question whether the water dripping on your face was the rain or the tears slipping down your friend's face. you know that was the funeral of your children, but you think both of the real 'you's died that day, too.

number eight. the warm, rumbling feeling of laughter in your chest as a smile hurts your cheeks, the sensation long gone. your mouth, for a moment, twitches into a small smile at the memory of the feeling.

number nine. the feeling of hands on your own, your husband's warm hands intertwined with yours as your cold, golden rings clink against eachother. your daughter's tiny hand clasped around yours as she leads you to a butterfly she found, grass brushing your ankles as you walk.

ten. the sound of your daughter's amused laughter, snorts interrupting occasionally. her head leans back as she giggles, her eyes scrunched up in happiness.

eleven. the sound of your husband's soothing voice, lilting with fondness as he looks at you. a smile absently crosses his face as he speaks, audible in his voice. you always remember smiling back.

twelve. your golden wedding band your husband lovingly slipped onto your ring finger so long ago, the one you furiously tossed into a dusty corner with particularily bad aim. you blame the poor aim on the tears blurring your vision, but it could've been the alcohol, really.

thirteen. your husband. you try to go to sleep in the center of your bed now, knowing that he won't be there. when you wake up, you always find yourself on the left side of the bed, as if you've moved in your sleep to accommodate someone. you scowl and think that your asleep self should stop being so stupid. ..you make the bed just in case he really does decide to come back.

fourteen. your daughter. whenever you make yourself breakfast now, you keep accidentally making two bowls, the muscle memory automatic, familiar, and no longer needed. you sit down at the table and set the bowls and begin to eat, but you always end up just stirring the cereal with your spoon as you stare at the untouched bowl across from you. you always end up throwing them both away. without your input, a frown tugs slightly at your lips as your pour out the second bowl but you know that nobody else was even here to eat it anyway. your eyes burn.

fifteen. your daughter, the one you know isn't the real one. sometimes you walk down those train tracks where you found her, hoping she'll be here this time. she never is. ..you still keep checking, just in case.

[maybe-itsforthebest]

- j (x), tomorrow

[inabigworld]

i don’t desire mediocre love. i want a love that is so deep, i want someone to drown in me.

[coffeexxcigarettes]

Hubris

-

It must be exhausting.

The screaming in your head;

Reaching out and brushing your fingertips

Against loved ones who turn,

Concerned.

And you laugh.

You fucking laugh.

It must make you choke,

Thinking of the way you stared in that mirror,

Ready to face nothing with certainty.

Vivid flashbacks ripping you

From state to state,

Their bodies rotting in your embrace-

How dare you?

It is not embarrassing to cry,

And yet I swallow until my throat cracks.

If you could speak for once,

Purge the darkness that plagues your bones-

Maybe you'd have a fighting chance.

But instead,

I stare in this mirror.

And nothing worthwhile stares back.

x

[mxmorbidmidnight]

The Shapeshifter (updated) an original poem