Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.

Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (via wordsnquotes)
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  • 1 day ago
  • 667

thesealivesinme:

Would that my heart were of wood,
and leaves the words of forest trees,
gather your fallen leaves would I,
that your words would never leave
the very wood of these here woods.

Beautiful.

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  • 1 week ago
  • 116

You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.

Frank Kafka (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
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  • 2 weeks ago
  • 286

A Bedtime Story

By Clay Matthews

Pipe tobacco and the passing of clouds.
The small promises of collarbones
and cedar shingles. Has it been so long
since I’ve really said anything? My days are filled
with meaningless words and the child’s
laughter. Little of what I do
is important, but maybe the ways
are. The crows outside bathing
in the gutters, the strange necessity
of holding up an appearance
and nodding our heads at dinner parties.
If I misspoke, if I misunderstood…
A litany of the stains that show
through on white T-shirts and hands.
What comes out in the wash are afternoons
and sand from the sandbox, a migration
of beaches to backyards, backyards
to the bottoms of sewer lines and imaginations:
what shore do the waves in my dreams
arrive from? Sometimes I hear you
sing there. You bade me speak,
and I howled. You bade me roll over,
and I played dead. I show up beside you
in bed with a dozen bad similes about love.
Don’t ask me what they mean, or if
I am ever —I don’t know. Only the streetlight
coming in and out behind the curtains,
our shadows making shadows
on the wall. Your eyes gone heavy
at the sound of my voice, reading you
these things others have written.

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  • #poetry #ClayMatthews
  • 2 weeks ago
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  • 2 weeks ago
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  • 2 weeks ago
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Ransom

Wind currents curl and bob around an escaped balloon, one part sadly shining as the sun catches it’s painted face, one part mediocre and blank, closed off as the clouds slip past and hide away the day’s gaiety.

His strong hand slides along her jaw to settle at nape and cheek, guiding her towards his own heat. They have been circling each other for days, eyes flashing like sun flares and their attraction growing with the force of a magnetic field. The ultimate crashing of lips like asteroids through space matter is inevitable. They watch as if in slow motion, hearing the catch of breath and pounding of hearts announce the moment with gravity.

As the balloon dances across the treetops and briefly skips along the electric highwire, the silence is interminable before the child, it’s owner, begins to wail. A high pitched caterwaul carries off into the distance egging the evasive balloon onward and upward, off towards a heavenly respite from THAT… the clobbering claustrophobic urchin it had escaped from. Gaily, the balloon escapes it’s mundane existence and makes for freedom.

Yielding, she accepts the challange; the possessive plundering, of his breathing through her insecurities. She opens herself slowly, loosening her tightly bound confines as he tangles his fist in the plait at her nape. Shocked pleasure plays across her cheeks, eyelashes flutter like tiny spring fed sparrows taking flight at once, pinked and pouting lips part to offer a perch for his preying teeth, come to set and sink into a bathing place of warm and ebullient succulence. Here is a kiss, lain as a prejudice towards the meek and assuming face she wears within the clouds of a hidden moon. Dancing upon the tip of her tongue, flame licks at his forbearance as she bows in supplication to the gaily painted sun. No longer does she wear the blinders of commonplace and society; she tiptoes along the rigid lines drawn. He has paid a beggar’s ransom for her freedom, her trust becomes his due.

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  • #prosetry #Ransom #interpretive
  • 2 weeks ago
  • 5

Making love was never about you and me in a bed. We made love whenever we held hands.

Ian Thomas, I Wrote This For You (via eros-addict)

See.  Absolutely beautiful.

(via johnsmith67)
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  • 2 weeks ago
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