kafk-a:

Kindness, kindness, kindness.

I want to make a New Year’s prayer, not a resolution. I’m praying for courage.

Susan Sontag resolves in 1972

undrjoyed:

undrjoyed:

I’m begging for help. I have no shoes left. They’re all fucked up. I have no gas. I’m asking for money every fucking day it feels. I’m so mentally sick. I’m in a bad hole. If you can even spare one dollar or a reblog… I am begging. I can do whatever you want me to do in return. I play guitar and sing and I write.

Venmo- bubblebath2006

I have paypal too but it has my legal name so please ask for it

Just trying to get some gas and something to eat tonight please reblog

voltaiire:

“I gathered wild lilies and honeysuckle and bleeding heart,”

— Patricia A. McKillip, from “Winter Rose,” originally published c. 1997
(via violentwavesofemotion)

kuanios:

Word(s) of the day: “thin place” - in Celtic Christianity especially, a site in the landscape where the boundary between the sacred & profane worlds is thinnest; a location where spiritual experience might most readily occur.

memoryslandscape:

but everyone had this patina
of slightly bruised longing, this shimmer of
I think I knew you when we were children,
this look of I’ve loved you ever since you were born
and probably longer than that

Paul Hostovsky, from “Everyone was Beautiful,” Dear Truth (Main Street Rag, 2009)

violentwavesofemotion:

“[I once saw] a gentle little girl gathering flowers.”

— Sappho, tr. by Josephine Balmer, from “Poems and Fragments,” c. 1984

lifeinpoetry:

Come here, then. Every ditch
has been exalted. We are covered with stars.
Feel how light they are, our lives.

— Lisel Mueller, from “Snow,” The Private Life

rmeisel:

the story starts like this:
you’re six years old
and your father tells you about the burden your brother has to bear
you watch the slaves build temple after temple
on their broken backs and bloody eyes
when your mother calls your name you turn around
and leave

the story goes on like this:
you look at the man you call father
and watch the shadows the fire casts upon his face
he takes you in his arms
and he calls you son
and says
they were only slaves
you run as fast as your feet can drag you
but his words echo like poison off the walls

the story continues like this:
your brother takes the throne
he was always destined to do so
you send the plagues with God’s will
until he breaks, until he yields
once you thought the chance to make him laugh
was all you ever wanted
now, when the slaves bleed you bleed as well
it leaves stains on your skin

the story ends like this:
you court Death and God and both make you their prophet
they call you scourge and sword
and you play the part well enough
the slaves are free

Ashira l'adonai, Ki ga'o ga'a

you watch your brother fall
silent
like rain over ruins

Lost Relics
r.m | published in Cadence | buy me a ko-fi