“There is always more than you know.
There are always boxes
put away in the cellar,
worn shoes and cherished pictures,
notes you find later,
sheet music you can’t play.”—Dancing (excerpt) by Margaret Atwood (via melancholynotes)
“Well, while you were in the bathroom, I sat down at this picnic table here in Bumblefug, Kentucky, and noticed that someone had carved that GOD HATES FAG, which, aside from being a grammatical nightmare, is absolutely ridiculous. So I’m changing it to ‘God Hates Baguettes.’ It’s tough to disagree with that. Everybody hates baguettes.”— John Green, An Abundance of Katherines (via The Beautiful Letdown)
“Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn that anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.”—David Whyte (astroinquiry via saturnrising) (via melancholynotes)
“People cannot stand the saddest truth I know about the very nature of reading and writing imaginative literature, which is that poetry does not teach us how to talk to other people: it teaches us how to talk to ourselves.”—
Calculated lines mark the passing of time in Desolation. Feet dusty with sand standing amidst broken minute hands and glass.
Words pour down like rain and run through my hair, runs through my fingers like soft butter.
These dreams were created out of dust from the nothingness within our souls scraped from the sides to create a monster an equal mix of demise and hope which trumps around, stirring dust into our eyes till mud runs down our cheeks like tribal signs marking the passing of time in Desolation.
Sadness to those whom have sunken deep, it seems to me, is like a deep sea forever near the abdomen and chest, ready to pool up and absorb our happiness and light. But then, we, most of us and most of the time, manage to keep our heads above the water, and then we have a way of being and maybe seeing the light differently, disfrutando mientras acordando. That’s something how I see you - a distinct and beautiful vision while so much sadness pools near the heart.
To write poetry is ridiculous, to stare at a blank screen, random word searches on wikipedia, searching for inspiration as if it is a hidden treasure tucked away within the vast expanse of our minds. To write poetry is ridiculous. We would all be better off saying what we mean when we mean it and why. Metaphors are messy creatures similes are as vague as the universe. Allusions—they’re as frivolous as Moses and the 12 plagues. No one understands my poetry, anyway. So to write poetry is ridiculous, alliteration is allusive and asinine And anaphoras? absolutely hopeless, hopeless as a stranded fisherman, hopeless as this poem. To write poetry is ridiculous. To breathe it, live it, lavish it, dream it—
“Why am I afraid to dance, I who love music and rhythm and grace and song and laughter? Why am I afraid to live, I who love life and the beauty of flesh and the living colors of the earth and sky and sea? Why am I afraid to love, I who love love?”—Eugene O’Neill (via beelockwood) (via aboveall-love) (via wearebasiclight) (via stare-type)
“I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.”—Sylvia Plath (via quotewhore)
I feel inadequate. Looking at graduate programs is depressing. And stressful. Is this really what I want to do? Yes. yes, I want my writing to grow to its full potential. But this MFA program that I am dying to get into only excepts 6 poets… 6!! Everything about it seems so perfect. And graduates have gone on to be best sellers. This is my dream. This is what I’ve always wanted. But can I actually do it?