myinkstainedheart:

And sharp as a marksman,
what bullet cuts through chest
fair as truth, as words may attest,
Apollo sits atop your gun;

triumphant on the barrel as if war
has been fought and won. And I,
slump on a chair ‘fore paragon,
awestricken as though seeing star.


1 hour ago with 85 notes
originally myinkstainedheart

How do you do it? How do you string these seemingly simple words into such beauty?

You try to write with as much honesty as you can.



2 hours ago with 31 notes

B

B is for buttercups, bright and yellow in summer;
bore between breaths, bellflowers, bluebonnets.

B is for butterflies, blithesome over blossoms,
the buzzing bees. Bronze honey bulge in their bellies.

B is for the breeze, blowing; the barley, rows and rows
bending. B is for brazen bells on a Sunday wedding

and a bride. B is for bread, barhopping, the bric-a-brac,
for the bosom Cupid’s bow, bis, - twice struck.


10 hours ago with 47 notes


6 days ago with 636 notes
originally wtfchrisstuff

Gone on the morrow as the flames
that crackle and glow in tonight’s
affair, and breathes smoke thereafter

or the choir’s chorus, the sopranos
rise, but the song eventually dies.
It is never too early to start missing you.


1 week ago with 49 notes

Closer as the dark veils the green leaves
from sundown; there is tenderness in its
arrival, such grace is reserve. What matter
is not how soft or heavy the heels fall
on the bare floor but that he comes in at all.

And settle his palms in its home; a bird
returning to its twig bed after a day of labor
with a handful of nectar I eat for supper.
I stuff my cheeks of it; well-fed as the night
would bleed black and the wan moon grow paler.


2 weeks ago with 41 notes

He was breathing November months out of his tin foiled lungs. It folds like butterfly wings, as he try to push back the tears inside his bag of bones. She was still bright as ever, as beautiful as the setting sun in a tangerine-pink backdrop. She always remind him of little daisies littering the side of the road. Something equally simple, yet equally pretty. Puff, puff, puff. He smoked all the reveries in quiet nights. Tucked his stale bread heart underneath a bed of soft stranger’s skin, and reminded himself she is no longer his to have. Winters came along like petals blowing ever so gently and sudden, and the lines on his faces haunt the youth he now bid adieu. But she’s still there, in the wind, murmuring the silent whispers of his soul. ‘Wake up, I’ve been waiting for you.’ Cherry lips never tasted so sweet, especially to lips you’ve longingly wandered about finding again.
Let’s call him John, and his heart—Winter. -s.p. (via mystrangesilhouettes)

2 weeks ago with 165 notes
originally mystrangesilhouettes

And sharp as a marksman,
what bullet cuts through chest
fair as truth, as words may attest,
Apollo sits atop your gun;

triumphant on the barrel as if war
has been fought and won. And I,
slump on a chair ‘fore paragon,
awestricken as though seeing star.


2 weeks ago with 85 notes

Where, all the rocks upturned and the rivers
drained, not the day has heard your name
and the bumblebees abuzz in opulent fields
why their wings in mid spring refrain.

You were clasped between two parting winds,
one blowing to the south the other west bound -
you were grey dust holstered in the air;
you were here and at once cannot be found.


2 weeks ago with 87 notes



2 weeks ago with 1,080 notes
originally bestofthe60s

It baffles me how your working hands
are tulip soft as if they have neither been
strained nor pained witness to a task
and they have, they have twice in the morn’,
thrice in a course of a day. Why even the sky
is tainted a violet-red bruise at dusk.

Yet yours remain faultless, as if gloved
with spring blossoms that sprang from veins
and abidingly covered your palms like garlands.
My palms rest over petals. If time and labor
are teeth that withdraw youth and roughen skin,
they missed you. And I like holding your hands.


3 weeks ago with 102 notes

Fuck yeah September.


3 weeks ago with 82 notes


"He wanted me to love him unconditionally, but Jimmy was not able to love someone else in return … he was the troubled boy that wanted to be loved very badly. I loved Jimmy as I have loved no one else in my life, but I could not give him the enormous amount that he needed. Loving Jimmy was something that could empty a person." -
Pier Angeli on her relationship with James Dean

"He wanted me to love him unconditionally, but Jimmy was not able to love someone else in return … he was the troubled boy that wanted to be loved very badly. I loved Jimmy as I have loved no one else in my life, but I could not give him the enormous amount that he needed. Loving Jimmy was something that could empty a person." -

Pier Angeli on her relationship with James Dean


3 weeks ago with 4,503 notes
originally writingwillows

I have seen you, emerald eyes,
on a trip I made when I was young
and no more than three feet tall.
And I have heard you spoke to me
in the chords strung from a nursery song

at bedtime. I know you as I know
the number of steps up the Virgin;
Her kind eyes were carved from stone.
I know you as all the things I’ve known -
poems, prayers and home.


3 weeks ago with 137 notes

'I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.'

'All right,' said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.

'Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice; 'but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in all my life!'

— Lewis Carroll, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” (via aclockworkplum)

3 weeks ago with 159 notes
originally aclockworkplum

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