“My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.”
— Virginia Woolf   (via de-licacy)

(via langleav)

“How wonderful it is, to be silent with someone.”
— Kurt Tucholsky (via kitty-en-classe)

(via writingwillows)

“when someone adores you, look at this person.
look carefully and see who they are after a long
day of not seeing you.
because what you want is not to have somebody
who hurtles a sonnet down your throat—
who forgets you told them it was sore before they did it.
you do not want someone who pins you down on your
bed and kisses your temples and calls this his prayer for the day
but becomes a non-believer for the next 18 hours.
but somebody who picks up the phone when they leave
the place that has caused them to be separate from you.
who, after a long day, simply says ‘I’m coming home to you.’”
— Salma Deera, Lessons From My Grandmother #3
“This is my promise:
I will be there
if you are there.”
“Once you start to speak, people will yell at you. They will interrupt you, put you down and suggest it’s personal. And the world won’t end. And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have fallen in love with your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers, and realize you don’t miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you. And you will still flirt and paint your nails, dress up and party, because, as I think Emma Goldman said, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.” And at last you’ll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”
— Audre Lorde
“People forgot poetry is magic. Writing is the most sacred art. Writers and poets are insanely lost. That is why everything is so surreal.”
Hedonist Poet (via hedonistpoet)

(via langleav)

hannahelizabethpolefitness:

Unsure of the dancer but photo is by Don Curry

“to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
— "The Thing Is," Ellen Bass (via commovente)

(via thetalltwig)