I would have stayed if it meant
talking to you on those wooden stairs all night
I’d have slapped mosquitos away
and listened to you compare yourself to your father
until the sky grew pink
If only you knew how much I meant it
when I assured you of your talent
I should have pretended I’d drank more
and kissed you on that couch
made a fool of myself again
just so you could taste how much I think of you
You can do great things
Things that will cause your father to
scratch his beard and ask for more details
Things greater than the small town you grew up in
I just wish you’d do them with me
both frightens and excites me, my mother
yells at me because she’s convinced my
soul has rotted away into a yolk yellow, i
can’t stop counting the seconds before
you respond, i like the beach the best at
winter but when you ask “have you been?”
i lie and reply “no”, my shoulder blades are
bleeding blue, slipping away into my dress
like oceans slip away before you kissed me,
when i go to church i count the paintings,
the warm reds and vibrant strokes of blue
remind me of your hands, when i think of
the willow tree my minds turns white, i
asked my school counselor where i could
get those pink pills, you know the ones they
say makes you feel like you’re on acid? she
rolls her eyes at me and tells me to stop
smoking so much pot, it’s getting on
her nerves that i won’t take her job seriously,
but can’t she see just how serious i am?
when my sister came home drunk at 2 AM
i asked about her boyfriend, she told me
he made her ribcage feel like mint birds,
i don’t know what love is, but i damn well
know it isn’t
-i know you think of me on nights like this (via irynka)
You remind me that miracles come bundled up in summer dresses and sugar water smiles.
My voice still trembles when I try to tell you that you look beautiful,
Always you kiss me quick and I know that you forgive me for my awkward tendencies.
I don’t think they make me any better,
You make me better and you make me want to better than I already am.
We are not a mix of sugar and salt but spice and sweet.
And you’d think that we don’t exactly go together but it’ll just take some getting used to.
I’m still getting used to the idea that you haven’t left yet even after all my neurotic affects;
You told me, once, when we were too drunk to walk that
“Nothing about you is wrong to me.”
And I remember thinking how weirdly you worded it,
But I also remember that it sounded so beautifully constructed.
I know we’re just getting started,
I know we’ve just begun.
I told you that I have a tendency to burn and that I wouldn’t mind if you decided to run.
You told me,
“Baby, I like playing with matches.”
"First Spark" - Nishat Ahmed
Really late on this request but here it is!
We are the generation of the selfie and of self-induced sadness,
born in the same year that three of my idols would commit suicide.
Most poets die with the lights on,
but we all plan on drowning. We are the generation of grounding
lightning into coffee beans, of pulling strings from the hems of our dresses until we unravel,
of leaving footprints in the gravel on the way to the edge of the world. I am a computer girl,
and I was born in the year of the boar. Maybe that’s why I’m a whore,
and my best friends are all pigs,
and I dig my own grave every time I open my mouth.
We are the generation of meaningless trophies, it’s true.
My parents like to tell me: “you
think that you deserve everything.” But we are a generation of scraping,
watching our parents cry over housing prices
and dying white clothes black to blend in.
We are children of the wind, born to land wherever freedom settles us
and we take our parent’s debt with us everywhere.
We are a generation of change and of chains, and mostly
I think we deserve any fame we can get:
thirty people hitting “like” on a status.
Girls posting photos of themselves naked have earned every moment of bliss
they receive from finding themselves beautiful in their own skin.
We are a generation of women airbrushed to perfection
and daughters taking pills to feel pretty again.
And mostly, I don’t like to make sweeping generalizations about my friends
but I think it’s okay
if at the end of some days we feel like relaxing,
taking a photo of our dinner,
telling two hundred near-strangers how lucky we feel
to be existing anywhere at all.
-The Selfie Generation; Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)
-Álvaro de Campos (via escrevera)
Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..”
but what I’d really like to say is:
“My name means island of the ships but once
I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck-
not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire
after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.”
I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s.
They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special.
The doctors, they want facts not details.
“I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-“
The right or the left?
The teachers, they want interests, hobbies.
You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do?
The adults are a spew of questions.
What school do you go to? What classes are you taking?
What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend?
People my own age are the worst.
“I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.”
Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know,
I’m pulled apart, my interests travelling highway 2
my goals at a stop light at traffic hour,
my medical history on a billboard for the world to see.
But what about me?
Where’s the chance to say,
“I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets,
and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down
so I can swim with the stars.
I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it.
It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome.
I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years,
each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.”
No wonder none of us know who we are anymore.
-kpk (via towritepoems)
(It is also
É como carta fechada.
Quem me quer nada promete,
E eu sei como sou amada.
-Tomás da Fonseca, Filha do Labão
-Oswaldo Montenegro. (via versiculos)
Nunca amamos ninguém.
Nunca amamos ninguém. Amamos, tão-somente, a ideia que fazemos de alguém. É a um conceito nosso - em suma, é a nós mesmos - que amamos. Isso é verdade em toda a escala do amor. No amor sexual buscamos um prazer nosso dado por intermédio de um corpo estranho. No amor diferente do sexual, buscamos um prazer nosso dado por intermédio de uma ideia nossa.
UM DIA NA VIDA DE DOIS
Chegamos na porta do cinema e ela perguntou
Se eu queria mesmo ficar dentro do cinema
Três horas e quarenta minutos vendo um filme
Ela tivera um ou dois namorados que só fodiam
Quando não tinham outra coisa para fazer
Por que foder hoje de tarde se podiam foder de noite,
Por que foder de noite se podiam foder
amanhã de manhã,
E por que foder no dia seguinte se podiam foder
E por que foder no sábado se podiam foder
na outra semana,
No feriado ou no dia do aniversário dele ou dela?
Mas ela sabia que comigo - com nós dois,
Pois na verdade não era apenas eu que fazia
Tudo ficar diferente -
era outra coisa.
E caminhamos apressados debaixo do sol
Pois não queríamos perder tempo, tínhamos depois
De voltar para nossas prisões e aguardar
O novo encontro, e fomos
Para o primeiro lugar mais perto, um apartamento sem
Nenhum móvel, e ficamos agarrados lá dentro,
A maior parte do tempo eu em cima dela
Com os joelhos apoiados no chão, e meus joelhos
E o meu pau esfolado, e ela com a carne ardendo, e um
Dente meu da frente rachado e um dente dela da frente
Rachado, e marcas vermelhas
Apareceram ao lado de antigas manchas roxas e nossas
Olheiras se tornaram ainda mais escuras, mas não me
Queixei nem ela se queixou. Era um pacto de incêndio,
Contra esse espaço de rotina cinzenta entre
O nascimento e a morte que chamam
-Rubem Fonseca - A Confraria dos Espadas
Sobre o leito, no escuro, morderam-se como feras.
(Ela tinha as ancas fortes e os seios pequenos;
ele era ágil como convém.)
Depois, nus e calados, esperaram a manhã.
E uma dor inútil beijava-os dos pés à cabeça
-António de Sousa