/tagged/writing/page/2
But it’s not like that. It takes so much time. That’s why it’s so terrible to see your own blood spilled on the ground. A fountain that flows a minute - and takes years out of our lives! When I got to see my son, he was lying in the middle of the street. I wet my hands with blood, and I licked them with my tongue. Because it was mine! You don’t know what this is! I would place the earth soaked with his blood in an urn of crystal and topaz!
– Blood Wedding, Federico Garcia Lorca (via thecrescenteye)

(via wetramblings)

3 weeks ago  5 notes

4/4

don’t worry:

sharp pebbles line the path that greets
your doorway. they kiss red hickies on
my naked tip-toes, ‘til i leave trails of
liquid rubies ‘round your home. like i
planted an army of fireants to guard our
heart for me. your black silhouette, your
bone smile, your gossamer aura stare at
my evidence in silence. you finger your ring.
don’t worry.     don’t worry.     don’t worry.  
the rain will steal my scent down the drain,
and dilute our passion for the thirsty grass,
and she will never know.

2 months ago  1 note

4/1

happy national poetry month.

freewrite:
i drink you in overflowing palmfuls.
your fermented veins stain my nails
until red rivers carve crooked love
lines in my swollen flesh. there is
something sober and cold my rotting
body wants you to see.
so swim, dear, in the warmth of my belly,
rest, dear, in the dips of my fingers,
and wait.

2 months ago  2 notes

lotus-eyes: Like Flowing Wine, Poems from “Duress” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

lotus-eyes:

Like Flowing Wine, Poems from “Duress” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

2 months ago  59 notes

The Lover’s Dictionary, by David Levithan

The Lover’s Dictionary, by David Levithan

(Source: 38618)

2 months ago  1 note

violent-buddhist: the strongest of the strange you won’t see them often for wherever the crowd is they are not. these odd ones, not many but from them come the few good paintings the few good symphonies the few good books and other works. and from the best of the strange ones perhaps nothing. they are their own paintings their own books their own music their own work. sometimes I think I see them—say a certain old man sitting on a certain bench in a certain way or a quick face going the other way in a passing automobile or there’s a certain motion of the hands of a bag-boy or a bag- girl while packing supermarket groceries. sometimes it is even somebody you have been living with for some time— you will notice a lightning quick glance never seen from them before. sometimes you will only note their existence suddenly in vivid recall some months some years after they are gone. I remember such a one— he was about 20 years old drunk at 10 am. staring into a cracked New Orleans mirror face dreaming against the walls of the world where did I go? —Charles Bukowski

violent-buddhist:

the strongest of the strange
you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.

these odd ones, not
many
but from them
come
the few
good paintings
the few
good symphonies
the few
good books
and other
works.

and from the
best of the
strange ones
perhaps
nothing.

they are
their own
paintings
their own
books
their own
music
their own
work.

sometimes I think
I see
them—say
a certain old
man
sitting on a
certain bench
in a certain
way

or
a quick face
going the other
way
in a passing
automobile

or there’s a certain motion
of the hands
of a bag-boy or a bag-
girl
while packing
supermarket
groceries.

sometimes
it is even somebody
you have been
living with
for some
time—
you will notice
a
lightning quick
glance
never seen
from them
before.

sometimes
you will only note
their
existence
suddenly
in
vivid
recall
some months
some years
after they are
gone.

I remember
such a
one—
he was about
20 years old
drunk at
10 am.
staring into
a cracked
New Orleans
mirror

face dreaming
against the
walls of
the world

where
did I
go?

—Charles Bukowski

(Source: granularbastard)

2 months ago  98 notes View high resolution

the ‘change’ poem

i want to show you:
the insecurities i’ve
capsized and suffo-
cated with my bare
hands, the fears i
swallowed like those
thumb-sized pills my
uncle stopped taking
before he died from
complications of gay
love, the mysteries i
hid in my own brood-
ing reflection. i would
love for you to know
how much i’ve chan-
ged. i love now. i love.

4 months ago 

the ‘its not you its me’ poem


there is an emptiness in the way i kiss you.
i was hoping you didn’t notice the uninterested
echoes leaking from my hollow lips,
disguised through mouthfuls of coos in your honor,
but you know now. now you know that
my sinister heart shrinks more every day
and it just won’t swell for you. but its ok, really.
know its not you, surely, its me.

you favor the men i’ve known before
or longed to meet or begged to forget.
i know what you’d do to me if i crack
myself open for you. i’m shriveled dried
and empty inside, dear. why would you want
to see that? i’m saving you, surely.
i’m saving you.

4 months ago 

I have named you queen.
There are taller ones than you, taller.
There are purer ones than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.

But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
no one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
at the carpet of red gold
that you tread as you pass,
the nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
all the rivers sound
in my body, bells
shake the sky,
and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
only you and I, my love,
listen to it.

– Queen, Pablo Neruda

(Source: lotus-eyes, via stellablu)

4 months ago  187 notes

But it’s not like that. It takes so much time. That’s why it’s so terrible to see your own blood spilled on the ground. A fountain that flows a minute - and takes years out of our lives! When I got to see my son, he was lying in the middle of the street. I wet my hands with blood, and I licked them with my tongue. Because it was mine! You don’t know what this is! I would place the earth soaked with his blood in an urn of crystal and topaz!
– Blood Wedding, Federico Garcia Lorca (via thecrescenteye)

(via wetramblings)

4/4

don’t worry:

sharp pebbles line the path that greets
your doorway. they kiss red hickies on
my naked tip-toes, ‘til i leave trails of
liquid rubies ‘round your home. like i
planted an army of fireants to guard our
heart for me. your black silhouette, your
bone smile, your gossamer aura stare at
my evidence in silence. you finger your ring.
don’t worry.     don’t worry.     don’t worry.  
the rain will steal my scent down the drain,
and dilute our passion for the thirsty grass,
and she will never know.

4/1

happy national poetry month.

freewrite:
i drink you in overflowing palmfuls.
your fermented veins stain my nails
until red rivers carve crooked love
lines in my swollen flesh. there is
something sober and cold my rotting
body wants you to see.
so swim, dear, in the warmth of my belly,
rest, dear, in the dips of my fingers,
and wait.

lotus-eyes: Like Flowing Wine, Poems from “Duress” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

lotus-eyes:

Like Flowing Wine, Poems from “Duress” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

The Lover’s Dictionary, by David Levithan

The Lover’s Dictionary, by David Levithan

(Source: 38618)

violent-buddhist: the strongest of the strange you won’t see them often for wherever the crowd is they are not. these odd ones, not many but from them come the few good paintings the few good symphonies the few good books and other works. and from the best of the strange ones perhaps nothing. they are their own paintings their own books their own music their own work. sometimes I think I see them—say a certain old man sitting on a certain bench in a certain way or a quick face going the other way in a passing automobile or there’s a certain motion of the hands of a bag-boy or a bag- girl while packing supermarket groceries. sometimes it is even somebody you have been living with for some time— you will notice a lightning quick glance never seen from them before. sometimes you will only note their existence suddenly in vivid recall some months some years after they are gone. I remember such a one— he was about 20 years old drunk at 10 am. staring into a cracked New Orleans mirror face dreaming against the walls of the world where did I go? —Charles Bukowski

violent-buddhist:

the strongest of the strange
you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.

these odd ones, not
many
but from them
come
the few
good paintings
the few
good symphonies
the few
good books
and other
works.

and from the
best of the
strange ones
perhaps
nothing.

they are
their own
paintings
their own
books
their own
music
their own
work.

sometimes I think
I see
them—say
a certain old
man
sitting on a
certain bench
in a certain
way

or
a quick face
going the other
way
in a passing
automobile

or there’s a certain motion
of the hands
of a bag-boy or a bag-
girl
while packing
supermarket
groceries.

sometimes
it is even somebody
you have been
living with
for some
time—
you will notice
a
lightning quick
glance
never seen
from them
before.

sometimes
you will only note
their
existence
suddenly
in
vivid
recall
some months
some years
after they are
gone.

I remember
such a
one—
he was about
20 years old
drunk at
10 am.
staring into
a cracked
New Orleans
mirror

face dreaming
against the
walls of
the world

where
did I
go?

—Charles Bukowski

(Source: granularbastard)

the ‘change’ poem

i want to show you:
the insecurities i’ve
capsized and suffo-
cated with my bare
hands, the fears i
swallowed like those
thumb-sized pills my
uncle stopped taking
before he died from
complications of gay
love, the mysteries i
hid in my own brood-
ing reflection. i would
love for you to know
how much i’ve chan-
ged. i love now. i love.

the ‘its not you its me’ poem


there is an emptiness in the way i kiss you.
i was hoping you didn’t notice the uninterested
echoes leaking from my hollow lips,
disguised through mouthfuls of coos in your honor,
but you know now. now you know that
my sinister heart shrinks more every day
and it just won’t swell for you. but its ok, really.
know its not you, surely, its me.

you favor the men i’ve known before
or longed to meet or begged to forget.
i know what you’d do to me if i crack
myself open for you. i’m shriveled dried
and empty inside, dear. why would you want
to see that? i’m saving you, surely.
i’m saving you.

I have named you queen.
There are taller ones than you, taller.
There are purer ones than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.

But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
no one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
at the carpet of red gold
that you tread as you pass,
the nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
all the rivers sound
in my body, bells
shake the sky,
and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
only you and I, my love,
listen to it.

– Queen, Pablo Neruda

(Source: lotus-eyes, via stellablu)

"But it’s not like that. It takes so much time. That’s why it’s so terrible to see your own blood spilled on the ground. A fountain that flows a minute - and takes years out of our lives! When I got to see my son, he was lying in the middle of the street. I wet my hands with blood, and I licked them with my tongue. Because it was mine! You don’t know what this is! I would place the earth soaked with his blood in an urn of crystal and topaz!"
4/4
4/1
the ‘change’ poem
the ‘its not you its me’ poem
"

I have named you queen.
There are taller ones than you, taller.
There are purer ones than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.

But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
no one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
at the carpet of red gold
that you tread as you pass,
the nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
all the rivers sound
in my body, bells
shake the sky,
and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
only you and I, my love,
listen to it.

"

About:

My name is Naima and I talk real slick like I got oil on my lips. I'm fueled by love.


"Girls are far too clever to fall out of their prams."
- Peter Pan