In Honor Of Back-to-school.

Persian Poetics was suddenly shut down today despite the account being set up by an American citizen.

They need your help to build a website. Their works are essential because they have been providing accurate and good English translations of Rumi's poems to the world and they also help us learn more about other renowned Persian poets.

You can support them here:

LaunchGood

Help @PersianPoetics Build a Website and Donation Platform | LaunchGood

Our funding source just shut us down. Help us build a new website and get back on our feet.

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You should follow them on Twitter and Instagram as well.

quick protip: if someone is crying or freaking out over something minor, eg wifi not connecting, can’t find their hat, people talking too loud, do NOT tell them how small or petty the problem is to make it better. they know. they would probably love to calm down. you are doing the furthest possible thing from helping. people don’t have to earn expressions of feelings.

A little Matthew while I am nursing wasp stings

i am the most stressed out laziest person ever i don’t even know how i do it

*twirling my hair* yea im always so scared haha. of everything *batting my eylashes*

Maybe if I lay in the grass long enough the dandelions will overtake me and I don't have to do human things anymore.

“I’d like to go quietly mad,”

— Vladislav Khodasevich, tr. by Michael Frayn, Twentieth Century Russian Poetry, from “Ballad,”

uk those books you read because they have a certain atmosphere.

Well, my favourite type of books have this one.

Usually something or someplace abandoned, decaying and the atmosphere indicates something is wrong, but you can't place it quite yet.

while reading through such stories, you feel a shiver run down your spine, not the ghost jumpscare kind. The sad, loneliness that haunts something or someone or someplace.

For some reason you picture the colour dark green, the rotten mossy kind, the damp forest floor kind or a blue, a blue so inky and dark, it almost feels like night, almost.

It's cold to the bone, it either rains too much or snows a lot. Secrets are unearthed or buried with it and you just can't wait for more.

This poem was inspired by two suggestions people sent me, "bottled up emotions" and "process to healing". I decided to write just one for both. I see it as a little story of redemption.

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