#wordsneverspoken

[prolixen]

"my darling i feel love in your bones"

@prolixen

[devingelien]

“it’s october once again and this autumn’s candle has been ignited,

with the door of my heart the memories of you rushingly collided,

a decade of time passed us by, and still you visit me uninvited,

or am i the only one who believes the lie i told myself and you’ve always been invited?

all the messages sent by the universe have left me nothing but misguided,

shall i keep you? shall i leave you? do we both think what we have for one another is unrequited?

my state of being lies in the equilibrium of being blinded, undecided, and forever to you ‘bounded’,

your words living within me, surrounding me, inspiring me to make us a new story, so let’s rewrite it.

this autumn’s candle has been lit, so when will it be the time for us to be united?”

- Ēva Devingelien

[coruscatingdust]

I realized that I spent most of my life mourning—mourning the loss of what once was and what could’ve been. I’ve exchanged my presence for dreams, my body for ghosts.

[snrvivals]

golden boy how does it feel to burn out in a single breath soaring on a thought that second-hand wings would save you oh, lionhearted boy didn't you know that the ocean weeps for tragedies before it swallows them whole

the flight of icarus

[afrobeatgirl]

We are all healing from something.

[clowninagown]

You still dream of them...

[chuckakot]

I could not wait for another minute now, to be inhabited by your ways, your happy feet is dancing again, how graceful and ephemeral, for this is the heart of the house, a place where our life is a secret, until it is no longer a secret, and to carry on just with you, alone together with you, to daydream in this cozy boudoir.

Chuck Akot, from Waterline and Other Poems, piedi felici

[wordsbymymind]

Sometimes I wish I had amnesia so I could forget everyone that treated me like shit.

[origami-houses]

I was so sure that he would hurt me, I practically asked him to do it.

- G.L. Angelone

[theangryshayar]

Fear

Fear is the key to survival

Fear is tunnel that keeps you safe

Fear is what pulls me down

Fear is what I cling to

Fear is my state of being

But I often wonder

Is there a life after fear?

I am fearful of fearlessness

For fearlessness will lead to chaos

The kind of chaos that is destructive

The kind of chaos that topples thrones and melts crowns

The kind of chaos that gives birth to art and beauty

The kind of chaos I desire but I often push back

I will never know what lies after fear, after death

But I feel the intimations of change that lie ahead, The dawn of a new beginning and destruction of the old

- The Angry Shayar

[duskyverses]

my heart’s breaking, every time i see those sweet words, uttered all for her; wishing so dearly they were for me. i’m not even sure if my heart has a right to be breaking at all. neon pink lights and bitten pink lips, that’s all we ever were. so who the fuck am i to be acting like this? to be shedding these tears to these sad love songs, all for you.

you were never my glittery pink dreams to begin with; you were always hers // moonchild // odes to seoul #2

[heather--moors]

So this is how it feels: working hard and making progress. Writing and rewriting and meeting friends to do more writing. Drinks with coworkers after a long shift. Happiness, and honestly, there is happiness. Photos to post online and shiny-haired days and coffee in the morning and chatty afternoons. I’m okay.

And then there is the long drive home. The shuffle of feet as I move from the locked door to the kitchen, where I will eat alone. And then moving upstairs, stripping off my clothes and climbing into the shower. Scenes move in my mind. Other lovers, other kisses. How long has it been now? Awhile. Then: lights out. I don’t take up much space on the bed. I am okay, but of course, I am alone.

— being alone is good for me, but god, if it isn’t lonely

[coruscatingdust]

I feel eerily protective of the part in me that loves to write—the part that spends a significant portion of the day writing, yet does not want to be exposed to the criticism of others. This part of me does not want to be scrutinized, poked at, and overlooked. She longs to be celebrated, affirmed, and held gingerly. This is a tender part of me that I long to safeguard as much as possible. It’s the child that you want to keep away from all the potential dangers of this world—far away from the exposure to all that is wicked and antagonistic.

When I say I feel like I am a good enough writer, I mean that I don’t feel qualified to be a good caretaker of the inner child who loves to write. Or that I’m not a good enough conductor to the conduct the musical piece in front of me. I am an amateur, perhaps not even worthy enough to contain the notes, the words, and their ebullient liveliness. So when I write, it is with the conviction that the words I emit need to be held within me, even at the point of combustion.

This is ultimately a dialogical process between the world and I, the writing part of me and I as her carrier, and between that delicate part of me and the unforeseen variables of this world. A relationship with many trust issues, one I have yet to reconcile. But if I’m writing for my sake only without conversing with the world, how may I even attempt to build the intimacy that may transmit my writings? Life is an ongoing conversation, I used to think. Is this conversion strictly a monologue or can I move beyond myself to engage in a dialogue?

[snrvivals]

so you sit there in his car empty words and louder silences and suddenly this man is just a boy scared and swallowed by raw feelings sea-storm eyes blink away the mess of a beautiful thing that could never be

[afrobeatgirl]

When you believe in God, you always experience his glory!

[clowninagown]