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On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong

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some more bad quality vegaspete textposts

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[other editions- Vegas, Pete ]

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I should have brought my poetry notebook

I'm bleeding down the hallway across the rooms and through the corridors. You would think that a locked door could stop something- But even a large piece of wood can not stop the flow. Taehyung is singing softly in my ears, counting million little reasons why he is falling for my eyes, But the blood does not stop- from my eyes, my face, and my open heart. I lie unmoving on the bed which is more blood than structure. Eyes unfocused, I stare ahead What does one look forward to- I ran thousands of miles for some peace Only to find my feet chained and myself locked in my old old prison. I cannot call it a friend. These walls never comforted me, They don't need to care how one feels around them. I have tried negotiating with them but they don't care.

The night is quiet there is not even much sound why does my blood trickle down the structure covering the patio and landings Is there an ending to this flow Do I end along with it Will I reach somewhere Will the commendatore be waiting for me after Will he experience a similar bloodshed.

I found this illegibly written in one of my notebooks that is not for poetry dated sometime in october last year. Seems like that I was reading Killing Commendatore by Murakami and listening to Christmas Tree by V back then. Shitty poetry from yours truly.

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Perhaps the World Ends Here, Joy Harjo

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My mother didn't leave me flowers

But she left jingles around the house

And screams in my daydreams.

She left illusions of comfort

In the red and gold of summer afternoons

And muffled cries of terror

In the red and gold of Benarasi sarees.

Warnings about the angry man in the house

Warnings about the angry men outside.

Brown and feminine hands that look odd.

Without frames of red, iron and white.

Hair partings, incomplete.

Without sprinkles of red.

My mother didn't leave me flowers

But she left me all the stories I know.

Stories of the grandma who had ten kids

And chili powder in her lungs.

The tiny girl who was taken

And escaped the kidnappers after a decade.

The grandaunt poisoned with sleeping pills

Every night, by her husband

Of women, fighting the world

Fighting their families

Fighting their loves

Fighting themselves.

No legacy is born without pain.

No war is fought without casualties.

My mother didn't leave me flowers

But she left me all the fire I know.

Cracking fires that drown out cries and laughs and other signs of life

Fires that you forge metal with

And burn bricks in, before you build a new world.

The new dawn, if it ever comes

Would need the fire to light up the sun

And maybe bring flowers someday.

My mother didn't leave me flowers

But she left me with all the fire I know.

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every couple of months i put my life together and take it apart and put it back together because. well. what else

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poems to read while having breakfast at the heartbreak hotel

I know I am but summer to your heart (Sonnet XXVII) by Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII) by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief (Sonnet II) by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale

[you fit into me] by Margaret Atwood

You by Carol Ann Duffy

Be Near Me by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Blessed be the spectacle by Lev St. Valentine

You Are Tired (I Think) by E.E. Cummings

Hope you're well. Please don't read this by Lev St. Valentine

To Say Dark Things by Ingeborg Bachmann

Lilichka by Vladimir Mayakovski

Love and Hate by Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal

Sanctuary by Jean Valentine

the winter sun says fight by Peter Gizzi

The More Loving One by W. H. Auden

A Primer For The Small Weird Loves by Richard Siken

Dirty Valentine by Richard Siken

Morning by Frank O Hara

We Don't Know How To Say Goodbye by Anna Akhmatova

You'll Live, But I'll Not… by Anna Akhmatova

from “An Attempt at Jealousy” by Marina Tsvetaeva

The Last Toast by Anna Akhmatova

In Dream by Anna Akhmatova

Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath

Talking In Bed by Philip Larkin

He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by W.B. Yeats

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats

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i // am statuesque. no colour & grotesque. i am art, i tell myself. i am worthy to be looked at, especially this way. this is love. this is love. this is —

— Lahraeb Munir, from "mother medusa," published in Pigeon Publishing

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— fatima aamer bilal; coffin heart? bury me.

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— Paige Parker, Flightless Birds (via lunamonchtuna)

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"I watched life and wanted to be a part of it but found it painfully difficult."

— Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 6: 1955-1966

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we never did

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@ryebreadgf / The Truth About Grief, Fortesa Latifi / bone deep, m.v.e / Sidewalk, Richard Silken / unknown / 60 hours, m.v.e / @itsblackleader / Salt, Nayyirah Waheed / @heavensghost

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Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from “Psychopathology Ward”, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972

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your father is always mad and the music is always loud

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“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put foundations under them.”

- Henry David Thoreau

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"Don’t court Loneliness", Tathev Simonyan