You are skybound and sprinting…– Miles Walser, from “Perfectly Human” (via weissewiese)
eyewitness, n. So much of my history resides in you now; so much of your...– David Levithan (via weissewiese)
careful how you bare yer soul careful how you bare it all– Patti Smith, from Woolgathering
Let it pass in bursts like bursts of music, until there is some quiet after,...– via Savage Coast- Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics (via guernicamag)
We breathe in presuppositions and exhale further stories.– via The Faraway Nearby - Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics (via guernicamag)
emmamgibbs: She ran and ran and ended up right back where she’d started again.
I used to draw all the time, and then I stopped. I drew again, and I stopped again. Again and again. Now I write and I don’t want to stop. When I write it feels like drawing. Again. bound - Fisk, 2009. Felt pen on paper. 50 x 200cm
Wick alight, burning bright. Sentience, the tinder for my soul’s ignition.
Don’t google your name. Ever. Don’t “search” for yourself on anything that...– Andrea Gibson (via hiddenshores)
I always endowed madness with a sacred, poetic value, a mystical value. It...– Anaïs Nin, The Diary Of Anaïs Nin Volume I 1931-1934 (via oh-to-be-a-work-of-art)
I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.– Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (via evocativesynthesis)
Now, what peculiarly signalizes the situation of woman is that she—a free and...– Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex She also says, “…I am interested in the fortunes of the individual as defined not in terms of happiness but in terms of liberty.” (via evocativesynthesis)
unefolieadeux: Middlemass The rush tumbled onto and over the tumult forming the billow of dark clouds upon the nearing horizon The arc stretched flat between two forces wanting rent of their absurd progeny But the Middlemass would not so disappear as in its thinness a new pattern ignited to behold and sting this lust for infanticide with a passion for the novel And the stretch begot inversion...
Trickles and locusts
emmamgibbs: Her loneliness doesn’t flow anymore. It’s more a trickle, like the remnants of a cold that should have abated long ago. The annoying, mucus filled phlegm of life-lived moments, too far gone to be accurately remembered. Times drunk on love and possibility, made sterile through perspective and fear. The solitude comforts with its novelty, coating her with self-determined plans...
Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting...– William Shakespeare, from “Sigh No More” in Much Ado About Nothing (via the-final-sentence)
In the novel or the journal you get the journey. In a poem you get the arrival.– May Sarton (via theparisreview)
When wandering through her gardens, being overwhelmed, few ever noticed that...– Michael Tweed, from The Beautiful Foolishness Of Things (via mitochondria)
dictionaryofobscuresorrows: n. the state or condition of unnoticed creative excellence—the hidden talents of friends and coworkers, the fleeting solos of subway buskers, the slapdash eloquence of anonymous users, the unseen portfolios of aspiring artists—which would be renowned as masterpieces if only they’d been appraised by the cartel of popular taste, who assume that brilliance is a rare and...
Her body is not so white as anemony petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a...– William Carlos Williams, from “Queen-Anne’s Lace”, in “Sour Grapes: a Book of Poems” (via mitochondria)