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[athousanddispositions]

I am one too many terrible poems and ugly prose. I know I cannot find my pace again. Can't find the truth in the untruths, can't make the words do what they need to do to calm the beat of my heart

Hold me and hurt me.

[athousanddispositions]

These are the poems of a mad woman, only partly seen. And they are pulling apart the sound waves like orange peel. Share me if you may. Leave me in peace.

[athousanddispositions]

I am somewhere where the covers are. Where the quiet is. Chalk writing on playgrounds. Helicopters breaking the sleep. I am spinning

[athousanddispositions]

In this one I write disjointed poems. Generic faces, half smiles and the details slipping through the pages. There is a story here, a story here, a story here. I am tired. Unravelling at the seams.

[athousanddispositions]

I know the words are jagged. Not quite a rhyme. The sentence structure is tired, achy bones and grey hair. There is no time for glorious poems, of pain and blood and burning. There is no time the way there used to be . The audience is asleep. The restless found rest, but the pens haven't stopped. I don't know what to make of this mess. I don't know why I have gravitated back here. Or better yet perhaps I do know but don't care for the answer. I am sickly with swallowed questions. I am sickly with viscous dreams of tomorrow

[athousanddispositions]

I am angry at myself for what this is. If there is symbolism in the laundry then I will find it. I am sunk in these metaphors. I am tired of these routes, the pathways made by footsteps , the chiselled concrete left

[athousanddispositions]

I am writing frantic poems again. The type that belied the feeling. The feeling that uncovered the truth. A mug of half drunk coffee, a terrible terrible memory of youth.

[athousanddispositions]

In this one I write a poem about train track lights and insomnia. There is a sunrise and sunset in my chest. The dust catches the morning, catches me, asks me over and over again. There are answers stuck in the base of my throat. Goodbyes before hellos. It slows, slows, slows.

[athousanddispositions]

Finally finished my last project by realajceci

[athousanddispositions]

instagram | krissmacd

[athousanddispositions]

“She liked being reminded of butterflies. She remembered being six or seven and crying over the fates of the butterflies in her yard after learning that they lived for only a few days. Her mother had comforted her and told her not to be sad for the butterflies, that just because their lives were short didn’t mean they were tragic. Watching them flying in the warm sun among the daisies in their garden, her mother had said to her, see, they have a beautiful life. Alice liked remembering that.”

— #Lisa Genova (Still Alice)

[athousanddispositions]

by Laura

[athousanddispositions]

TOP ⚜️ Lamborghini Aventador

[athousanddispositions]

Pen a letter to a grey face Let ink wash across the space between you and I - Am sorry for your loss, your losing, your blank walls Your home becoming a house Love can be bottled into a cup of tea Their favourite mug, their laughter catching the edge of a sweater Pull the thread of tomorrow Go where the oceans take you Pen a letter to an old friend

[athousanddispositions]

This dunya functions on loss. We are born to lose. Everything. Yet even after this realization the tears still flow and the heart still aches, knowing fully well they won’t lessen the pain.

[athousanddispositions]