estrum

Two Little (Too Late)

Eyes closed.
Vivid memory.
Slow dance.
Oasis plays.
Favourite song.
Palms tighten.
Ankles trembling.

Faint whispers
not there.

Moist floor.
Soggy pants;
shirt, too.
Dripping chin.

Two steps…
too little
too late.

eatsleepdraw:

In ‘n’ out {

eatsleepdraw:

In ‘n’ out

brutalgeneration:

(by Kmecu) {

brutalgeneration:

(by Kmecu)

thevintageloser:

✌ Hipster Vintage Clothing & More ✌ {

thevintageloser:

✌ Hipster Vintage Clothing & More ✌

{
eatsleepdraw:

…it’s my aeroplane. {

eatsleepdraw:

…it’s my aeroplane.

brutalgeneration:

disposable_fall2011_10sml (by Laura Dempsey) {

brutalgeneration:

disposable_fall2011_10sml (by Laura Dempsey)

Simple Request

poetry-of-soul:

I’m waiting for the day
I can be wrapped in poetry
calmly, as if it’s not a chemical peel 
gone wrong
Stealing my bodies water
and searing my skin

Why am I always burritoed
with molding cheese
And swaddled in ugly words
that smell like tuna and tears

When will poetry
fluff it’s arms around me
Like cotton candy 
-something sweet
and wrap me gently
Dear poetry
Hear my plea 

She drove a hole stronger than absence in me.
She made negative space in what I thought she could fill up.
Beyond empty.

Coasting

pen-names:

Friends have a fight
and become strangers.
They don’t know each other,
Their connection has taken flight.
Relationships so easily tear,
Is nobody really there?
Nobody wants to be weak
And say come back.
That’s the courage that
Most people lack.
Don’t believe it when the world says
You need to keep your mouth shut;
You’re in charge of your life,
So follow your gut.

I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me.

George Orwell, 1984 (via cerceuils)

(Source: evocativesynthesis)

It’s never familiar in feeling inadequate.

|| Anyone, anywhere, anything. ||

6 word poem,

Vocem (8/28/14)

My fingertips are twinned with ravines filled with cobwebs, many of which are onset of the words and tears of many past wishes, on the peaks of these cliffs in my joints stand little boys who don’t know what to do about the vast distances in the digits. My fingers shiver with the men of trembling; they tremble with fear and crippling self-doubt into my hands which turn into tremors, as well.

{

She lends her pen,
to thoughts of him,
that flow from it,
in her solitary.

For she is his poet,
And he is her poetry.

Lang LeavLove & Misadventure (via feellng)