curious, how timings change, one-fifth of a second that lady said. twice to date, it was sooner and i was already done for. an ode to irony, for the wild was captured, by the unwanting, and leg snared i was enthralled by the black trap. now i am an 8ft, 12 stone testament to recovery, and yet i am caught again! but by the accidental and now, one-fifth of a millenia has dragged by. this is no...
Loss of sadness
O, the questionable— i ask what is this sensation? this echo of a rattle, in the hollow of my chest? lightly, and damp like the breath of a dog after a day under the leather strap, it brushes against my ribs, flooding the lungs & i feel sick, plagued by the absence. would i rather that boring, dense, old sickness of 6 weeks ago? i couldn’t say. i had such a hate for sadness,...
tonight you're mine, completely.
don’t really know what’s happening lately, i feel like i’ve stalled & just stopped trying. i’m getting bored and agitated, i want something to surprise me and i want to go out and do something thrilling and i want to shave my head and bleach the fuck out of my hair and scratch my face and yell at something. i want to write, yeah i really want to write. i thought i only...
I wasn’t lonely. I experienced no self-pity. I was just caught up in a life...– Charles Bukowski (via henrycharlesbukowski)
verbose, like the bird’s song, each morning it is there and constant, but only of recent am i aware. glass, glass— i look back, through the days and i look back through the years. and i am blunty woken, it is my turn to see, O, the obvious, the bright cascade. it taunts me, and i weep for just how long have i been asleep? did i know then? in the womb? that the cheap white, and the...
higher, and always higher. your lachrymose glance surrounds and terrifies the soul. perched on the safety of your righteousness, you throw stones and jeer, jeer!— thump, thump. they reach the hole in my skin, and dance on the arch of my spine, i cower on the bed & in his arms. and dully, they rest in my guts, and they shake the seeds, and stir the blood. you testify, rosy lipped. as...
little has so much worth, as you do, and i cherish you always like you do, everything. and few things are promised, but the sun rise and the sun set, and my love for you! i weep, sometimes, when the clocks are unwatched, and feel you by my side— but of course i wont tell. and i know, they know you, & of you & how you appear but they still choose, to ignore your truths, so...
I think I made you up inside my head.” — Sylvia Plath– (via skintones)
Charles Bukowski, "dark night poem"
sharingpoetry: they say that nothing is wasted: either that or it all is. (submitted by lademarche)
whiskey makes the heart beat faster but it sure doesn’t help the mind and...– Bukowski (via montanawildhack)
but thoughts are thoughts, and feelings are nonexistant. they aren’t physical and they do not occur outside of the mind. when the world is dead and done there will be no sign of them; there’ll be plenty scars and interuptions, and burnt trees or quarries in the ground but there’ll no sign of your thoughts because they aren’t and they never were. your happiness is as real as...
i’m texting him & ending it, i’m gonna enjoy life or at last try to, i’m going to be honest to everybody, i’m going to appreciate my mind, i’m going to write so much, i’m going to work on my flaws and make myself perfectly flawed. come midnight i am going to start changing it all, i’m gonna change myself, i’m gonna try and i will succeed. come...