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#prose poem
limitlessend · 2 days ago
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All divination tools like astrology, tarot and so on are only useful when you choose to live in a dualistic world. Once you transcend duality, you're no longer bounded by these influences. That's the power of raising your consciousness.
—l.a.m.p
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insomniac-dot-ink · 2 months ago
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“I saw this and thought of you” has that wallop of tenderness in it in the same way receiving presents not on your birthday, but because they saw it. And thought of you.
Some version of the phrase What you love, you mention exists. And maybe they have no passion for impressionist painter Mary Cassatt or Golden Age super hero comic covers or Pusheen the cat. But you mentioned them, you made a little speech and maybe feel mildly embarrassed about having ranted about it for a bit long or bit much.
And really, they might not have any kind of passion for art or comics or stuffed animals, they don’t “get it.” But you think of Pusheen, and they think of you, and we are all connecting over entire oceans of self and faulty words, infinitely imperfect language and the inherent isolation of consciousness. Humanity makes symbols of our cluttered, decaying world with every breath.
It’s just a movie, just a toy, just a thing, but we are experts in patterns and understanding what a thing is not. Your mother covers your cut in a Spider-Man Band-Aid because it’s all you talk about at 7. Your uncle buys an entire gallon of green tea flavored ice cream despite the fact you are the only one that eats it. A friend buys you a shirt of a horror movie they themselves can’t watch.
Clumsy words and clumsy minds. The world would go on without ice cream or cartoon Band-Aids. And yet. And yet. We are experts in patterns and attempting to overcome the horrors of self, alone, and consciousness, continuing. 
It is not the thing itself. It is this, only this:
“I saw this. I thought of you, I thought of you, I thought of you.”
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unspokenevermore · 22 days ago
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Have you ever had a dream so real you think it is a memory?
- I’m still trying to figure out if you were real or not
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groceries-with-me · 5 months ago
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i can't help but flinch at compliments. i feel uncomfortable when people love me loudly, love me well, love me at all. i feel uncomfortable because it's all i've ever wanted. desire fills my lungs like water. i try to breathe through it but find it impossible. i want to be beautiful. wanted. but i fear it is my desire that makes me unlovable. i am on my hands and knees begging to be worth it. but no one loves a girl who is starving.
some nights i can't hide behind metaphors by sora h.
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tullipsink · 9 months ago
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you’re going to hurt me and i’m going to let you
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coldcollectivecherryblossom · 7 months ago
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10-813-08 · 5 months ago
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— Anne Carson, Grief Lessons
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a-moonlit-poet · 9 months ago
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People always tend to fall in love with those whom they are afraid to lose. And being with you what I have learned so far is that I am not afraid to lose you but it will be a bit difficult to live without you too. I may not be in love with you, but I am in love with what we have and I am afraid of losing that; more than I am afraid of losing you.
From, Me
-To, him
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senorita-grace-autumn · 4 months ago
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shmwrites · 5 months ago
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I promise you that there is no way that your life would be better with someone who doesn’t want to be in it.
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stained-glass-salamander · 2 months ago
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you have no idea
what power you hold
over me
a hint of your smile
sets spring in motion
and through my empty ribcage
wild roses sprout fresh green vines
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zoeadrien · 3 months ago
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trying to make sense of things
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mitskey · 8 months ago
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December—the farewell
— Henry G. Hewlett, December/Joseph D. Herron, December/ Adeline Treadwell [Parsons] Lunt, December/ Claude Monet, Snow Scene at Argenteuil (1875)/John B. Tabb, An Interview/ Samuel Taylor Colerid, Come, come thou bleak December wind/ Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Census at Bethlehem (1566)/ Virginia Woolf, The Complete Prose; “An Unwritten Novel,”/ H. T. Mackenzie Bell, December Daisies and December Days/ Margaret Atwood, “Crickets”, The Door (2007)
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memoryslandscape · 11 months ago
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At night on the page between awake and asleep, the world makes perfect sense. There we meet again for the first time and you take my hand.
Louis Jenkins, from “The Book,” No Boundaries: Prose Poems by 24 American Poets, ed. Ray Gonzalez (Tupelo Press, 2003)
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groceries-with-me · 10 days ago
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when i was born, my mom put a piece of the sun inside of my chest. she never wanted me to be cold. her whole life, she'd been trapped in a snow storm, begging for a scrap of warmth. she didn't want that for me. i keep trying to tell her about the aching burn the sun is giving me. but she can't hear me. not over the icy wind. and not over her desire to keep me warm. do you understand? my mom has always been so desperate for love that she drowns me in it. do you understand? my mother's love is killing me.
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limitlessend · 2 months ago
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Once you stop being curious, you stop being in love— you cease to BE love. Love is born out of curiosity. Without wonder, there's no presence. And in its absence, there's no love.
—l.a.m.p
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coldcollectivecherryblossom · 7 months ago
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