It Was Just The Same Long Summer, Always, And Everything Lived And Grew At Its Own Pace.

between black & white, gray

in my dreams, we hold hands & laugh at the idiocy of ancient obsessions & insecurities. we walk on lonely beaches & dance with nature in rainy jungles barely known to humankind.

in my nightmares, i run to escape    wild dragons     & memories. the blues often tackle me, & when my body slaps the ground, the labyrinth i'm trapped in whispers in my ear:

"running is useless, boy. you're a caged monster too"

- @skinthepoet

if you write, reblog and put what fonts you use in the tags

“Port of Spain, 2002” by Olivia Gatwood. Check out Olivia’s impressive debut collection, New American Best Friend.

I’d rather be in the mountains thinking of God than in church thinking about the mountains.

John Muir (via wordsthat-speak)

I. Black and white, I dream of hands I’ve never felt, the ghost of lips trace over my skin and it almost feels like a promise if I clench my teeth hard enough. II. We are both breathing the same stardust from a galaxy away, every inhale an unspoken ‘I love you,’ every exhale an ‘I’m sorry, I love him more.’ III. The stars continue to burn but I am already ashes. You are forever Apollo, rising in the East and I am falling like lukewarm snowflakes. IV. You don’t sleep enough to dream of my hand against your throat, you begging me to make you mortal- you never will be. You will forget about this. V. I will not. VI. Cassandra warned me not to love you and if I clench my teeth hard enough, I can pretend I never did.

oh, well isn’t this a tragedy || O.L. (via poetbitesback)

i’ve been spending a lot of time on trains, lately. always between places. always spending more time looking out the window while all this blue blurs into one big blue and i’m somewhere so close to home. this is my entire being wrapped together neatly. there is something inside of me that always wants to be somewhere else. i’ve been writing about this ever since poetry found me, at sixteen, at seventeen, in the dark & buried under a lifetime of existing. // i’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about people who don’t love me, or didn’t know how to love me. all this leaving leaves this feeling inside of me that is unlike loneliness, it’s more than loneliness. and when i’m screaming into the night, i have to remember that the night is only a time of day. that the moon is only a result of collision. that there are people who have stayed. and loved. for years. // and maybe poetry is my way of trying to get to the other side; of saying, i love you but it’s okay if you don’t love me. i know how the universe works. all this love is so beautiful, it’s cruel. 

It is cold in this thing we call a body. / Who will tend to the fire with so few hands to go around?

Alison C. Rollins, from “Skinning Ghosts Alive,” published in Tupelo Quarterly (via lifeinpoetry)

thoughts on youth & this dusty skin. fear of years. a mirror maze. how great to drift in a city with no name. alone. 

Reading list for my travels through Italy: - War of the Foxes by Richard Siken - Life On Mars by Tracy K Smith (rereading it <3) - The New Testament by Jericho Brown - A Season In Hell by Arthur Rimbaud any suggestions?!!!

anthem - leonard cohen