Source: peacockskull
Like a tide recedes from rocky shores
I drew back no matter how much you implored
I have failed to see the beauty here
Everything I loved has disappeared
(via jbe200)
Source: fiore-rosso
Source: leaveyouapenHello? Hello? Are you listening?
My name is Hannah, and my life is poetry. I think, read and breathe poetry. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been writing.
I am mysterious, there is so much you would want to learn about me.I am the blue piece of sky in the morning.
I am your closest friend, and your worst nightmare.
I don’t have much time, so I’ll tell you this:
When I was 4 years old, I wrote a letter to my neighbour in my mind and scribbled it down in little time. The words would never ever rhyme but I tried anyway.
I wrote scribbles on a envelope, and posted it through the letterbox, rusted and red. There was no permanent ink on that page, nothing. Just the silent whispers of a 4 year old girl.
I was writing before I could write. I was reading before I could read.
WHAT IS POETRY?
My dear,
Source: leaveyouapenPoetry is a paradox. Poetry describes the indescribable. Like fear, suffering, betrayal and also happiness, beauty, love. Poetry is a paradox. It makes possible the impossible. It gives expression to our silence and shows the most grotesque pain in beautiful words. Poetry is a paradox. There are so many ways to explain what it is, yet poetry is one and the same.
Yesterday, blue tasted like licorice.
Even wind chimes caused dizziness;
an ache of paper lanterns rotting
from the acacias. Perhaps the L
in my name makes you sad,
evokes a film where a woman
waves from a train. Or how
this horizon wants to be a hymn.
If you listen, you can
hear the holes in the alphabet,
sounds lit by the lamps
of our bones. Perhaps
with this page I could fashion
a boat or a very convincing window.
A dress made entirely of vowels.
(via thetargetbird)
Source: woodlandpattern.org