the dance

everyone plays their part
~ Sunday, September 14 ~
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You shall love your crooked neighbour, with your crooked heart.
W.H. Auden (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: misswallflower)


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if snakes come,
send them after rats
and keep on—


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blind

guilty butterfly blinds your
already blurry eyes
with a pocketknife.
a bee lands at my feet,
licks the wet gravel,
and dies.
it looks like cold weather
but i sweat—
is there any delicate way
to cut a heart out?
some part of me
doesn’t care at all.
some part of me
is prolonged sorrow.
the snake swallows whole
but the skin sheds so slow.


~ Saturday, September 13 ~
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Preoccupied with a single leaf you won’t see the tree.

Vagabond (via thecalminside)

but if you look long enough you might see the entire tree within a single leaf


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~ Friday, September 12 ~
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fall into me,

it will be your own
mouth you hit, firm and glassy,

your own eyes you find you
are up against   closed  closed
Margaret Atwood, “Tricks with mirrors,” from You Are Happy (via lifeinpoetry)

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On the river Seine

We were on a tourist boat,
my hair was glowing
gold in the sun, floating
around my face like
I was underwater.
I was looking past you
talking about falling chestnuts
and the birth of moths.
The bridge made
your face a shadow,
you looked hungry,
you were begging the past
to change us back.

Tags: poetry
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~ Thursday, September 11 ~
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Funeral for your guitar

Bike chain choking my heart. But I don’t feel that way anymore, do I? I purged it all last night under the moon. I wrung my wet shirt out. Screaming in the car, gave myself a headache. I like driving though, singing behind the dark tint. I have to talk around you or else I’ll use my weapon. History is a scattering of feathers where once there was a dove. I dug where the red X was and found a silver box, ornately carved with grape leaves and antlers and fat little cherubs. But the box was empty. Now what? Pocket it. Buy a one way ticket. Right now I’m walking in the desert. The future folds back on itself like a wave. I’m already on the other side of the ocean, offering you up to some island god. I’m already dead and reincarnated as your guitar. Touch me while I go away. Play me a funeral song. I’m free.

Tags: prose poetry prose writing
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cycle

i yearn.
i receive.
i push.
i sever.
i search.
i start over.


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You do not get peace by hating war; you get peace by loving peace.
— Bashar (via iam-youis)

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~ Monday, September 8 ~
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the dogs are howling like a boy half-way gone


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