Couvertures de sérénité

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"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red."

Kait Rokowski 

(Source: writingsforwinter, via mercurieux)

"You have access in my bone and existential structure. […] Which means you are inside of me in a way no one is or shall ever be. Don’t ask me how I know that. My senses belong passionately to you; you are in me as the relaxing shower drops touch gently my skin; you are in me as the sea waves echo when they crush the beach rocks. You are in me when I lie — as I do now — in bed, paralyzed by the sluggish, dull rhythm of life. You are the air in me delightfully nourishing my small brain, so crammed with unusual perplexities. You are in me like a stillborn pain refusing to be washed off. You are in me like the sun’s spots of quivering light merged with whirling blood and flesh. You are in me in these supposed to be ‘poetical’ corny lines. And I know it will never be enough. I live with knowing that in a way which is not profound anymore; In a cruel, real, remorseless way of no return. How pathetic — I live with solely that."

Frida Kahlo, From a diary entry titled, “You are me” dated 1940 

(Source: requiemforthepast, via marcescentfleur)

"I write beauty like light in glass,
fleeting and unique. I want to catch
your tears and put a stop to the sadness
that threatens to envelope us
and propel us into obscurity. So kiss my knuckles
while I hold your soul and let us see
what comfort we can give our aching hearts.
I told the world to cry diamonds
because that’s how much pain is worth
and as your eyes drop I catch a gem,
note its radiance, 1.28 carats
of distress resting in my hand like thunder.
I smile into your mouth, my remedy
to your every malady, let my eyes
scream laughter and let my gaze fall
on you. You tilt your head back
and I bow my body down.
I take your fingers in mine and between
us we’re clasping your soul so tightly
it begins to bleed. You say, look how I hurt.
I say, yes, but dear, most wisdom stems from pain."

Laala Kashef Alghata, “Kiss My Knuckles While I Hold Your Soul” 

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via marcescentfleur)

you gotta love everysingle part of me 

you gotta love every
single
part of me 

"af·ter·glow \≈\ n. I. The light. esp. in the Ohio sky after sun-
set: as in the look of the mother-of-pearl air during the morning’s
afterglow. 2. The glow continuing after the disappearance of a
flame, as of a match or a lover, and sometimes regarded as a type
of phosphorescent ghost: This balm, this bath of light / This
cocktail of lust and sorrow, / This rumor of faithless love on a
neighbor’s lips, / This Monday morning, this Friday night, / This
pendulum of my heart, / This salve for my soul, / This tremble
from your body / This breast aflame, this bed ablaze / Where you
rub oil on my feet, / Where we spoon and, before sunrise, turn
away / And I dream, eyes open, / swimming / In this room’s pitch-
dark landscape."

A. Van Jordan, “af·ter·glow” 

(Source: structureandstyle, via irredescent)

"I have named you queen.
There are taller than you, taller.
There are purer than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.
But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
No one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
At the carpet of red gold
That you tread as you pass,
The nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
Only you and I, my love,
Listen to it."

Pablo Neruda, Love Poems

(Source: observando, via thelostdeer)

"Under your tee shirt it’s flat as the Midwest and I
want to live there. I’m sick
of cities, of coasts, of oceans
relentlessly nagging the beach. I want the meat
and potatoes of you, want the obvious
choice for big spoon to be you, want to
give up my cocksure swagger and swoon
over yours instead. I want
the senior prom and the picket-fenced
lawn and the American flag
on the back of your truck, want to fuck
like the other half does—want to god-bless
your foreign body, the whole long slim
length of you, the endless
prairie of your chest, the rough
plain of your cheek, your terraced
ribs, the muscled goldrush
thrust of you. Yes: I want the simple
plus-minus of us, the luxurious,
brainless, obvious-us, want to touch
you in public and relish
how nobody stares. Don’t tell me
your fears. Let’s just swap our worst
pick up lines. If I wanted love
I’d go back to Brooklyn, to the woman whose body
is so much like mine. But I want this whole
wild country, idiotically brave, catastrophically
free, and you, cowboy, to come home, home
on the range with me."

Ali Shapiro, “American Dream” 

(Source: englishistheartofbullshit, via clementinevonradics)


Edgar Allan Poe’s signature on your lovely little blog

Edgar Allan Poe’s signature on your lovely little blog

(Source: coffeedirt, via mercurieux)

Má Vlast: II. Vltava, Bedřich Smetana; Rafael Kubelík, Czech Philharmonic Orchestra

(Source: sforzinda, via hannibalsmusic)

"It’s a marvelous thing, the ocean. For some reason when two people sit together looking out at it, they stop caring whether they talk or stay silent. You never get tired of watching it. And no matter how rough the waves get, you’re never bothered by the noise the water makes by the commotion of the surface — it never seems too loud, or too wild."

Banana Yoshimoto, Goodbye Tsugumi 

(via bluestown)

"Around us, life bursts with miracles—a glass of water, a ray of sunshine, a leaf, a caterpillar, a flower, laughter, raindrops. If you live in awareness, it is easy to see miracles everywhere."

Thich Nhat Hanh 

(Source: thecalminside, via ofallingstar)