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#poem: excerpt
liriostigre · 22 hours ago
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Mary Oliver, “West Wind.” West Wind
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verydazedragon · 24 days ago
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Life is such a broken toy of a thing. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wonder at how it turned out to be. The scant years between high school and myself have gone—where, exactly?
I have realized myself to be a diluted version of what I once was. These days I'm walking around with a dead-eye stare. I didn't used to hide my smile for special occasions. I look through my high school yearbook, go through the photos on my phone and I wonder how my former self could have been a much angrier person when my smiles were only ever genuine.
It was reform school that did it, I think; took the smile out of me, right along with the cruelty and will to live.
I have unusual eyes, you know; everyone always said so. Drooping eyelids and pale green irises with dark forest edges, purple bruising to frame them. Someone once told me that my eyes were breathtakingly beautiful after I'd been crying. They were breathtakingly beautiful most of the time, back then. I don't know what they look like now, only that no one looks in them directly anymore. No one looks at me directly. Including myself.
I look into the mirror on accident sometimes, and I'm am always surprised at what I see, surpised at the gentle curves on what was once a broomstick body. I run my hands over my ribcage, feeling the dip of skin where fractured bone was never tended. Hip bones still as sharp as ever. My lap is a much softer place to be, not that anyone would ever know, and my hands are not as swift to swing. I look at them sometimes, my hands. I never lost the habit of hiding them, even though the knuckles are rarely raw these days.
My ward noticed the scars, once. He was watching my hands on the gearshift and he asked me if I had a habit of punching walls. In my entire existence, I have never punched anything that wasn't alive, and I told him as much. It bothered me for hours that I didn't have a response when he asked me if he was the sort of kid I bullied.
I never had a response back then, either. I never thought of myself as a bully, I only hit the ones that bothered me. But that's something a bully would say, isn't it? I don't know. I don't know anything; that much hasn't changed. I feel more legend than human, yet no one knows my story.
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anjo-umbra · 2 months ago
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angels suffer to walk the earth yet they do with burning footprints.
Anjo.
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wonderness · 3 months ago
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There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled. Like, telling someone you love them.
Mary Oliver, from Felicity: Poems; “Moments”
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woolf-and-other-muses · 2 months ago
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যদি থাকি কাছাকাছি,
দেখিতে না পাও ছায়ার মতন আছি না আছি–
তবু মনে রেখো।
If I am near
But you see me not, for I have disguised myself as a shadow -
Yet, forget me not.
- Rabindranath Tagore, Forget Me Not (originally, Tobu Mone Rekho), Geetobitān
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wini16 · 4 months ago
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like a wind,
a strange wind,
from somewhere tropic
making a storm between my blind legs.
- When the glass of my body broke by Anne Sexton in Complete Poems.
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liriostigre · 3 months ago
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Alice Walker, "No Better Life." Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth
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dormivegliaxix · 3 months ago
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— W.B. Yeates, The Wanderings of Oisin
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verydazedragon · 27 days ago
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Here's a life lesson I've learned: there is a difference between people who ignore their pain, and people who pretend it isn't there. In my experience,  the only people who pretend they are not hurting are those too weak to do anything about it. It is easier to pretend the knife does not exist than it is to rip it out of the flesh that closed around it. It takes a particular kind of courage to acknowledge injury, to acknowledge that something isn't right, that perhaps some things ought to have been done differently. It takes courage most of us do not have. Some people are so afflicted, so pierced with foreign objects that they are little more than walking wounds.
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wonderness · 3 months ago
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Try to find the right place for yourself. If you can't find it, at least dream of it.
Mary Oliver, from Felicity: Poems; “Leaves and Blossoms Along the Way”
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welcome-to-the--abyss · a month ago
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The abyss I call, home
Do you hear the abyss?
Do you hear the waves crashing against the rocks?
Do you hear the leaves turning themselves with the wind?
Do you hear it?
That is the sound of the abyss, that calls me home.
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blossomwrite · a month ago
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— You said you love me. — He regrets, remembering the weight of those words. — You did this for me. But now are dating another man? Fuck you.
— But I love you, and it was for you. — Tears rolling down her face. — I did for the band. To help you guys. — So she breathes deeply realizing that having no hope might have been a mistake. — But I never put any hope, that this could bring you back to me. I was just conformed that I already lost you forever and followed the flow.
— You hadn't lost me forever — His eyes were close, holding tears. And he finish before leave: —, but now you've lost.
— excerpt from a book i’ll never wrote #1 // @blossomwrite
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