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#spilled poetry
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@romcommunist //Jenny Slate//Unknown-from Pinterest//Mary Oliver//Keith Haring
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ninasdraftsa month ago
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I like to think that in another life we might have met under different circumstances. Imagine something like this: a crowded caf茅 downtown, where the rich smell of freshly brewed coffee hits you the moment you open the door. People are tripping over one another in their haste to become someone worthwhile and their chatter drowns out your favourite part of your current favourite song. You take out your phone and replay it, and that is when you see me. Doesn't it always go like this? In movies and books and songs? Eyes meet across the room and the whole world stops. It's different for us, though, because you told me you didn't believe in love at first sight.聽 So maybe you wouldn't fall in love right away. Maybe you wouldn't even notice me. But perhaps you'd start visiting that busy caf茅 more frequently. Not in hopes of seeing me again, but because of that unexplainable pull you feel toward that place. Toward me, even if you aren't aware of it yet. Because if there is one thing I'm certain of, it's that we'd find a way to meet even in another life, again and again. Never the same way but always with the same outcome. If there's one thing I want to believe in, it's that my soul would reach out and find yours through the years, different lives, across universes and mountains and the sea. And that your response would always be the same: come find me, I'm dying to meet you.
in another life / n.j.
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helenasurvives6 months ago
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i am asked about my favorite color.
i am seven
and my reply is
pink
because i am a girl
and pink
is a princess color.
i am asked about my favorite color.
i am ten
and i like
green
because a boy told me that pink
is lame and girly.
i am asked about my favorite color.
i am thirteen
and i tell them
purple
it is unique and spunky
like i want to be.
i am asked about my favorite color.
i am seventeen
and i just say
red
i do not say
it is bright and angry at the world
as i am
i cannot form the words to express
all of my frustrations
so i paint my lips with
rage.
i am asked about my favorite color.
i am twenty
and it鈥檚 pink
i remember the joy
of being a child
i reclaim the freedom
of femininity
because i cannot remember
what my shoulders felt like
before the depression
hung from them.
i am asked about my favorite color.
i am twenty-six
and my answer is
brown
it confuses most people
they don鈥檛 see it
they may think of dirt
and dust
and dead things
but it is coffee with friends
and the chocolate chip cookies
my mom used to make.
it is my hair
and my eyes
amber and gold
in the sun
and i love myself
again
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thespilledquotes9 months ago
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I will tell you what she was like. She was like a piano in a country where everyone has had their hands cut off.
鈥 Angela Carter
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aeris-poetry8 months ago
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skinny
when I was dying
I think it is really fucked up
to start a sentence like this
everyone complimented me
on slowly turning to ashes
'You look so pretty dear'
they said
and I heard
'try harder'
when someone is suffering
from lung cancer
You don't light them a cigarette
You don't
You do not hand a suicidal person
a loaded gun
unless you want them to die
so why did you?
why did you handed me a gun?
what was I supposed to do with it?
besides pulling the trigger
when you are sixteen
and at some point
we all are
nothing is as easy as dying
without anyone noticing
dying isn't like it is in the movies
a 60 second sequel
with blood and wounds and lots of noise
it is a quiet long-term-process
You do not recognise the dead
-aeris
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thebookquotes9 months ago
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There are stories only you have to tell, because there is no one who looks at the world in the way you do. There is no one else who listens to the whispers tucked in a soft breeze or understands the wilting petals whimpering. There is no one who feels the earth in the way you do. You are the one.
Ekta Somera
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i-wrotethisforme7 months ago
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If you want to know if you鈥檙e with the person you鈥檙e supposed to be with, look at how much you love yourself, not how much you love them.
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melloncolliegalaxies2 days ago
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sometimes i feel more like a house than a person with the way i decorate my body and my face to hide damaged walls and empty spaces; my heart is more like a door with changed locks because i've made multiple keys for people who walked all over me with filthy shoes, people who said they could live here, but they were just passing through. i hope my eyes are not windows, because i fear what the world might see鈥攁ll of my flaws and insecurities on display like a coffee table or some shoddy love seat. sometimes i swear i left the oven on and forgot because my mind feels like a smoke detector with the way my apprehension never calms. i smell smoke, but i can't see it; i'm told things are never as bad as i make them, but every wildfire starts with a spark and it's easy to burn when you're a house made of straw.
- "house made of straw"
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