Daha iyisini bulursan beni unut; benden kötüsü çıkarsa hatırla beni.“
“Beni ben olduğum için sevenler lazım bana kimse için değişmedim değişmemde samimi olsun canım feda samimi olmayan ne varsa bundan sonra hepsine elveda hayatımda fazlalıklara yer yok bundan sonra.”
Morning bright sky and a mug of coffee.
Favorite breakfast and pleasent music.
Silence and empty roads.
Family, peace, love and delicious lunch.
Books and imagination.
Night sky and stars are now hope for all. Close your eyes and say thank you because you are alive to count them all.
Is it wrong of me to wish for the fairytale?
My cat Diana 🐱🍀
And when you love,
your heart sings a song
that nothing can contain,
So loud, so strong,
tears down to dust every wall,
It will not be silent and so it pours out of my fingers into words,
Words you own for it is your love, the melody of my song
It is beautiful with delicate strength,
born of trust,
born of hope that blooms again.
It is kissed with the cinnamon sunshine of your skin and
the velvet midnight of your hair, and
the melancholy of the pain-earned wisdom in those infinite eyes of old,
of all you have ever thought, experienced and behold.
It is full of the light of the divine love contained in your holy soul.
So I sing of a love that can never be silenced,
of a love that blooms eternal,
infinite in a way only the heart knows.
Write something using these words:
return, forget, escape
„Nostalgia. Jest jak narkotyk. Jest tak niebezpieczna, że przez nią nie widzisz prawdy.”
The Walking Dead
I’m writing a poem based on a song every day this week, and I need your help.
Send me a song + artist in an ask (anon or not) and I’ll write a poem based on that song.
Seni öylesin sevdim ki, beni sevmediğini görememişim. Nasıl sevdiysem?
I’m writing to you, birthdays
I will no longer partake in your parties and pleasantries
You can’t coat me in frosting and sprinkles
Stick a flame on my head
And call it another year anymore
Put the screaming kids back in their cages
And kick these cowards that just remembered I exist in the ass
Put a bouncy house in my backyard and I’ll bounce a baseball bat off your bumper
Because if my birthday is the only day worth celebrating the life that I’ve lived
Then every little thing that I do to keep living must not matter
Because while everyone might bust out the fireworks and piñatas for the destination
No one ever gives so much as a fuck for the journey
For the clawing through mud with bloodied fingers
For the crimson-cracked eyes from nights never slept in
For the black and blue back that bears the beatings of another day
I’m done being celebrated for how shiny and sharp I can look once a year
Like a knife that only gets used on Thanksgiving
You know the one
Fuck a happy birthday
Because today is as much of a blessing as any
Hell, I’ll even make up a new song
Happy Today to you
Happy Today to you
Every moment that you are a patron of this Earth is precious and important
And we sincerely hope you’ll stay to see tomorrow
Happy Today to you
Yeah, I know it’s a little wordy
But I think it’ll catch on
Slowly as we go,
Towards the sky.
Towards each other.
Slowly as we go,
He threw his cigarette on the ground and stomped it hard with his boots before screaming at the top of his lungs.
He was losing his mind.
He can’t do this anymore.
You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.
— Albert Camus
i wanna say something, its interesting to me that President Clinton has repeatedly felt the need to apologize for his Neo Liberal Policies, and each time he does, he sort of stammers, seems conflicted guilt ridden, and generally honest. now you juxtapose that with President Obama, or Joe Biden, or his wife Hillary and there’s none if that, call me crazy even though I think I’m onto something, but I think it may have to do with his Sexual Appetite. I’ve come to realize that if we are to have leaders, then analyhsing the psychology behind their Sexual proclivities is important because it shows their true character, and I think because President Clinton loves pussy so much, he has a clear sense of shit, which also reminds me, one of my boys once told me “ Pussy Clears your mind up” and when looking at President Obama or Hillary, its clear they’re most likely Asexuals, and you can’t trust anyone who is an Asexual because they’ve taken themselves out of the naturalness of life, look how unemotional and non involved President Obama is, dude is a secret Asexual, I get no Sexual vibe from him at all, which is interesting, because usually us men of color we love sex. I think this is also what doomed that woman in New York that actress, no one was gonna vote for some upper class Lesbian, just looking at her I knew that as she had no ENERGY to her, what authentic LGBT person you now doesn’t have energy ? people weren’t going to vote for some upper class liberal lesbian, because they essentially could tell she was fake, that her lesbianism was a sham, she ain’t authentically that way, she just hopping on the bandwagon to be fake, now I’ll tell you this, if she would’ve came to her race, with some BLACK DICK she would’ve won, why you may ask ? because people would’ve been like damn she got a brotha with her ? ok I’ll vote for her, BLACK DICK would’ve humanized her, look at that other real Lesbian from New York that AOC endorsed that Latina, when I first saw her, my first thoughts were this BITCH got ENERGY she’s gonna win, just how she carried herself, you could tell although she was a dyke, the bitch was REAL, and you know what ended up happening to her, it was so clear to the DNC that she was gonna win, that they committed fraud to prevent her from winning would you imagine that ?
but i’m telling you SEX is important, and people on a subconscious level understand that, when it comes to leaders, choose people who love SEX, who have healthy SEX LIVES, because SEX shows someone’s love for humanity, and as my female mentor once said, its also procreation, who can create children to move us forward ?
Like Kestrel, the townspeople had hollow stares and dead, expressionless faces. On the rare occasion she saw them outside of their houses, they went no further than their rickety wood porches, tracking the movement of people passing through with nothing but their eyes. Their lips never moved - not to speak or smile. It was impossible to know what they were thinking at any given moment, yet they had somehow formed a silent language that allowed them to convey their thoughts with each other.
Every day, once the sun was only a sliver on the horizon, they’d all step back inside, locking their doors and making sure their curtains were closed. The first time Imogen had seen it, she believed it was nothing more than a coincidence; definitely weird but a coincidence nonetheless.
Then she saw it happen again.
I always imagined we’d meet in a field of hanging clothes. White sheets would be billowing in the wind, held fast only by wooden pegs. They’d get in the way of you and me. Filthy clean interlopers, turning you from a maid’s dream into a spectre of the opera.
So I’d start running. I’d run towards you, even as the ground sprouted with green, even as the posts started to crack and the clotheslines started to loosen and bow. I’d run.
When I’m in your arms, the clothes are sullied by the mud. Now they’re as dirty as I am. Their whiteness fades as the rain batters down on them, bruises them with brown and green and black and grey. While you hold me, I imagine that we’ll never let the rain touch us.
It’s a cute fantasy, for a while. Then the clothes are all hung up.
You can’t say this out loud, but once, people thought there were many gods. I don’t know about that. I do know that whatever god is up there, I’d have questions for him.
Not the broad sort of questions that ignite the minds of the philosophers and kings. I’d ask him if he’s ever counted how many women have chopped vegetables in the history of the world he created. Surely he can count. It might take him a while, though.
There’s a press you do with the thumb, and you drown the carrots in your sweat. You have to do it when no one’s watching, that’s the magic of it. In fact, that’s the only kind of magic that really exists: the one that no one can see. If they saw it, they’d burn you at the stake.
I once talked to a man who loved to talk about cleaning stains. He brought up soap and lye and he even made the motions with his hands. The wrong sort of motions, because he’d never cleaned anything his whole life.
He liked talking about things he’d never done, things he’d never understand. He liked comparing the unknowable to the supposedly knowable. That’s why they called him a philosopher.
I don’t think he realised that he was philosophising with the bed, and not the woman next to him. I could only see her back while I lifted the tray from the table, but I knew she didn’t care about any of the moral stains this man wanted to scrub. She knew plenty enough already.
While my mother taught me about heaven and hell, I dreamt about a different kind of afterlife. It was a world full of scales, towering over a sea so dark, it looked like the Lady’s obsidian.
Everyone ends up on a scale. You have to balance your way to the one end of the pan or the other. All around you, you can see so many other scales, they’re above you, below you, and they all have people on the pans.
Sometimes there’s one person, and sometimes there’s many people. The scales keep balancing, up and down, up and down, and the people cry and jump and sometimes, they jump off.
And the cruellest thing about it, is that you don’t know who stands on the other side of your own scale. You can ask the others to tell you, but can you trust them?