The Greatest Actor

I'm a poet. I'm a loner. I'm a social butterfly. I'm a beauty. I'm a reject. I'm anything you want me to be.

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“A writer is a world trapped in a person.”

—   Victor Hugo (via maxkirin)

(via je-suiselle)

Empty Shell

they’re always
out of reach

walking in
then sneaking out

leaving egg whites
of themselves

spilled inside
my pretty mouth

slaughterhouse90210:

“There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.” ― Anaïs Nin

slaughterhouse90210:

“There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.” 
― Anaïs Nin

voyeurchic:

Brian Andreas - Story People

voyeurchic:

Brian Andreas - Story People

(via aquietjoy)

Shape-shifting

I was the dirt
in his fingernails

the ashes
flicked from
his cigarette

his dirty words
mumbled into
the thick heat
of a battered
hotel room

a tear in the
plastic wrapping

the drips of sweat
off two bottles
of Bud

I was
the panting
the inhale
the exhale

the quiver in
his legs and
a spot left
on the sheets

better yet—

I was the moon
that caught his eye

right before
he fell asleep

Blood Moon

blushing at the sight
of two lovers quietly
turning to her light

“Who can face the sea and not inherit its loneliness?”

—   Olin Ivory, from the poem “Bad Year Anthem” by Matthew Nienow, Poetry (November 2013)

(Source: psych-facts, via jawh)

writingsforwinter:

practicing excessive optimism in order to try and make another person more optimistic is exhausting

My Body is Not Your Sin

I was born in a deep water

in a purling stillness
baiting a school of fish
toward the holy hook of a
shrouded fisherman

and when the blood ran
I was brought into the aether

reincarnated as
nelumbo nucifera

a chimerical existence
eager to blossom

with soil and water
light and time

and you

swarming my pink hips
to open so naturally

so that
you might rest your wings
on my delicate nakedness
before my petals fall off

before I return
to that familiar deep water

“We’d make love. We’d make love through the sadness.”

—   Charles Bukowski   (via petrichour)

(Source: writeyourheart-out, via whattheyarnknowsofsweaters)