poemsaboutpining

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In the cathedral of your gaze I found hymns written in the language of lost constellations

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Separation, W. S. Merwin

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[poemsaboutpining]

What do I yearn for? What is it? What, at the thought of possessing, makes my gut clench in agony of desire? What do I want to grasp in my fingers to call my own? What would put me over the moon, blindfolding my eyes with the cover of bliss?

What do I not have, but am already afraid of losing?

It is not love. It is not a person. But then, what? What, for all that I am, is it? What is my soul so desperately seeking? I will soon be consumed by the force; the need drives me mad. The possibility that I might never attain what I need drives me madder. The fact that I don't even know the need I might never attain drives me to the brink of death.

—— by CarpeVenus (@songs-of-venus)

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[poemsaboutpining]

07/29

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today one of my most beloved friends forgot that people in england speak english.

it's been hours since then, and the thought still warms me through like holding a hot drink between your hands in a kitchen where someone was recently cooking, the air soft and spiced and smelling like home, lingering remnants of the effort of making a meal that's meant to be shared with others.

jesus fucking christ I love her so much. she's so stupid. I hope we stay friends until the day we die

[poemsaboutpining]

A poem scribbled on the back of a truck in China, apparently written by the trucker. Translation by me

I love eating lamb kebab,

and I can judge from its texture

the age of the lamb.

This lamb today is

about as old as I am,

both full of youthful vigor

to be slaughtered at will.

[poemsaboutpining]

I trip over

her sentences and

fawn through her

rose-petal breath.

My name is

whatever she desires

and I

am fulfilled.

Robert J. W.

[poemsaboutpining]

Sing, my little mocking-bird

Sing your mocking song

Your wing is doused in kerosene

Your head is screwed on wrong

A wishful Maker--Glory be--

Had weld your thoughts in place

A cranial sanctum fashioned He

With metal, tulle and lace

Your eye sees beauty, graceful thing

Your beak trills pretty notes

But claw as you will; beat your wing

Your head moves not a mote

Loved you many a lassie-bird

Brown and black and grey

Bust did you against that rope

But that cruel nail bid you stay

The more you keeled--the more you strained--

The more your wound did bite

'Til penance learned you Saintly-still

And bitter curbed your plight

So sing, my pretty, flitty bird

Sing, and writhe, and turn

Sing, as your singed feather tars

My self-same heart to burn

[poemsaboutpining]

Theres a poem in there somewhere. Methinks. Dattebayo.

[poemsaboutpining]

i wrote a twin cinema poem about two gay soldiers in wwi

context: the two sides, read separately, are the two soldiers thinking about their futures with each other. when read together, it's a reflection of their final thoughts when they die together struck by bullets <3

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[poemsaboutpining]

(Happiness is not a state of being.)

[original comic by @diaryofadissembler]

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Inside Our Love, Leonard Cohen

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Really missing my girlfriend that doesn’t exist rn

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"Mission", Leonard Cohen