Soup. 27. Tired. I used to have a dumber system but all original posts are now under #crabwritten.
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— Georgia O'Keeffe, from a letter to Russel Vernon Hunter, from Georgia O'Keeffe: Art and Letters (via letsbelonelytogetherr)
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were you perpetually and exclusively praised for what you could one day become, instead of what you were, leading you to a lifetime of feeling like you were not only never good enough, but that the best thing about you was a future that would never come, that constantly felt like it was slipping away? Did you become so afraid of closing doors, of losing that one good thing, that potential, that you stagnated at the crossroads until your life began to rot around you and the asphalt ground to gravel and the roads grew ever rougher, the doors closing one by one even as you tried in vain to keep them open, instead of choosing a path and committing to a direction for your own progress? Did you watch the best thing about you, the one thing you were praised for, slowly collapse in your arms as you tried desperately and hopelessly to save it, finding yourself kneeling in the ruins of your unexplored promise, looking for a way out, and wondering if there was no where else to go? no way forward? When someone tells you they're proud of you, that they love you for who you are, that what you are is good enough, do you cry? do you struggle to believe them? do you have to try your damnedest just to make yourself hear the words? Do you wonder if, one day, you'll learn to be happy with who you are?
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‘Love is an organic thing. It rots and softens.’
Words by Clementine Von Radics
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Apparently I wrote this long ass poem while suuuuper drunk and did not remember doing it until I found it in my google docs titled FLOATING DEATH SKULL, SALT RIM which I think is very fun what a nice little surprise for sober me
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Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet
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Morgan Harper Nichols’ ‘Let July be July’
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case skinned by bracken valentine // january 2024
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[image ID: an untitled poem reading:
I don't have fireflies on this side of the Rockies I left them nine days away by car They, unbothered, didn't go anywhere Didn't miss me I hold their glow on the roof of my mouth Taste there And not there.]
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