I am a fierce profusion of giggles; love me, love me not.
"Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the poet with it. Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a petal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.” -Robert Frost
I was writing new beginnings, middles, and ends. My nice manners and neat appearance decayed. I came to resemble a madman who was attempting to extract moonbeams from excrement.
—Kurt Vonnegut
(Source: vonnegutphile)
e.e. cummings
maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)
and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and
milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;
and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and
may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.
For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea
(Source: sharingpoetry)
each day demands we create our whole world over,
disguising the constant horror in a coat of many colored fictions; we mask our past
in the green of eden, pretend future’s shining fruit
can sprout from the navel of this present waste.
-Sylvia Plath, “Tale of a Tub” 1956
For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.
—Virginia Woolf
(Source: pavorst)
UNREAL
I am trans
Parent, with a dead child.
Left trans
Muted, with no whole words.
The days stay passive, passing,
But nothing is amassing
In my womb.
I am, instead, a walking tomb.
The future looms,
Unknown and un-alive.
I could not conceive, and not connive
But possibility, I clung to.
Now the blackened blood is wrung through.
And the saline sangre droplets
(From eyes and meeting of my thighs)
Refuse to cease or slow.
His relief is palpable
But I can’t hold my woe.
Dead on delivery.
Doomed dead, long before.
Destined dead.
Devastatingly dead.
I am filled with dread.
Though no one ever lived,
I feel my heart
Is made of lead.
I cannot leave my bed.
I shall not ever wed.
My womb, it fills with red.
And you and I, too,
And he? Perhaps she?
I bled, and bled, and bled.
All three of us are dead.
NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY
