“The Eye-Mote,” By Sylvia Plath

We want so much, when perhaps we live best in the spaces between loves. That unconscious roving, the heart its own animal.

Tracy K. Smith, A Hunger So Honed (via: skinthepoet)

lost o’clock  by jezzini 

but isn’t time just the carbon copy of a man-made concept brewed                           when a few thousand breaths                           twist their heads in reverse?

then there’s daddy hawkin saying time is an everlasting pie                           where its ending meets our cries &                           its purpose, don’t dare to fuckin’ ask.

some nights,                     when my minutes end their shift & my sighs wander adrift, i hear the clock                     spill its sins in pointless ticks;                                 the way those seconds come                                 climbing up these bones then diving down my throat                                 in emptiness. in the grey & the low;                                                        in these words i aim to draw                                                       on the skins of poems screaming love                                                       with perfect rhythms                                                               but no blood.

I am fueled by foggy mornings, moonlight, and starry skies.

Di Drago (via exospecies)

lets do an honesty hour ask me anything

You’re standing in a room you used to know so well, a hand on the doorframe when it starts. The walls blur and your shirt’s off; there’s a hand reaching for your waist. Almost an invitation. Almost something more. How many times has this body been almost touched? The world rights itself and you’re past the first exhibit. You move inside, past the books, the poems, the lists you almost finished. You’re sitting on the edge of a bed when it hits you again: a mouth on your mouth, a hand on your thigh. Almost an argument. Almost a mistake. You could call this the exhibit of personal significance. You move toward the window, making note of the sideshows playing out around you. The time you almost saw the streets of Spain. All the nights you almost saw the sun rise. All the times you almost reached out to someone but didn’t. Your mind’s moving someplace else now, to a series of snapshots. Eyes in different colors, blurry faces thrown back in laughter, hands poised around drawing pencils. Freckles on shoulder caps, tattoos in small corners of the body. Tell me, how many people have you almost loved?  Call this the art gallery. Call this the main attraction.

Kelsey Danielle, “Call Me a Series of Almosts” (via pigmenting)

The first known poet in history, Enheduanna, was an Iraqi woman. She wrote about Inanna on tablets in the cuneiform language.  The interesting thing about her is that she had a position or title. It was “The keeper of the flame.” I think that if a poet should have any role at all, it should be (wherever and whenever) the same: “keeper of the flame.”

—Dunya Mikhail, from “New Directions Interview with Dunya Mikhail,” Cantos (April , 2010)

it goes too fast. 

hi again, tumblr

I will write about you until my hand aches and my heart does not.

purpl-reign  (via wnq-writers)

my mum is coming to paris on tuesday. we haven't seen each other in about a year and a half... i wanna get her flowers for when i pick her up at the airport. which kind of flower is ideal for this situation? which kind of flower shouts thank you for existing, thank you breathing by my side?