Deep Down The Core Within This Big Heart Of Mine Lies An Unhealed Wound That When Touched Aches As If

“A well-chosen book saves you from everything, including yourself.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald (via minuty)

I might be confused sometimes in my head but it is not something you need to talk about. Before you can talk you have to line it all up in order and I had rather just let it swirl around until I am too tired to think.

Kaye Gibbons (via quotemadness)

Source.

Lana 💙🌹

“It’s not ‘natural’ to speak well, eloquently, in an interesting articulate way. People living in groups, families, communes say little–have few verbal means. Eloquence–thinking in words–is a byproduct of solitude, deracination, a heightened painful individuality.”

— Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh (via the-book-diaries)

A Call

I felt the need to call you.

.

You had promised me.

But it seems I was only dreaming.

The abysmal dark threatens to swallow me.

To dampen my whispered calling.

You had vowed to come to me.

“Anytime”, you said, “you shall ever need me.”

The promise lies broken I fathom.

You should be here by now

But it seems that you won’t ever come.

I don’t fear my fall for I can rise up to move again.

But what about your promises that stay broken?

.

~ aranya

I wanna run away with someone in the middle of the night and go on adventures and see the world and eat at cheap truck stops and sit on top of our car and look at the stars and just be somewhere other than here. 

the hardest thing about poetry

is honesty.

how do i give words to the

interior of my soul

and then put it out for

the entire world to see?

knowing that there are

blurry faces i see everyday 

but don’t really talk to

who will remember my poems

the next time they look at

my face and think-

this is what she feels,

this is what she hides.

so, here is a confession 

as the new year is upon us:

much of what i write isn’t honest,

it isn’t me.

my poetry is not me.

if you want to find me,

if you seek what i hide,

look carefully in the spaces

between the words,

in the pauses and the hyphens.

search for me in the white in between

the black print, 

in all the unexpressed

in the midst of the art.

even at my best,

find me in the silence

bursting between the 

adjacent syllables,

then don’t just look,

hear,

listen to what one word 

whispers to the other,

how they acknowledge the unsaid

by leaving space for it on the screen

to exist

then don’t just hear,

smell,

breathe in the vaguely musky scent

of all the letters that never made it

on to the screen in front of you

because i pressed backspace,

either because they didn’t really 

say what i really wanted to 

or because they said it a little too well.

then when all this is done,

feel it.

understand

that this is why in school

you were taught four different interpretations

for a single line and although

that might exasperate you,

this is why a poem is more than

the sum of the words that

it consists of,

this is the reason why the words

you read on paper and on your screen

will never be where the 

true meaning of the poem lies.

but the truth sits there

squeezed in between all the noise,

patiently waiting,

somehow always the winner

of this game of

literary hide and seek.

but now,

if you want to,

at least you know where to find it.