nayyirahwaheed:

she asked, 
‘you are in love,
what does love look like’
to which i replied,
‘like everything i’ve ever lost
come back to me’

   - nayyirah waheed

(Source: miguu, via nayyirahwaheed)

,,

I feel like I’ve swallowed a cloudy sky.

Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart (via moonbrains)

(Source: larmoyante, via yutke)

“Into the Night” by Martin Egblewogbe

ghanailoveyou:

A story, timeless:
it tells itself again

and the waves beat again and froth the shore
and the waves beat again and froth the shore

The sun is westering.
Ancient winds thunder across the water.
Soon the moon will be sailing,
glinting on the scales of the old sea-monster.

and the waves beat again and froth the shore
beat again and froth the shore
froth the shore
froth the shore

the story tells itself again
o wonder that it does not exhaust!
Starlight will soon pierce the orb.

Wild, wild, world of long ago
exploding volcanoes and boiling seas.
Winged beasts mounted the air
and man was but a worm.
But in promethean glare
– yet it has been but a flash –
the worm became man, and the man
becomes a worm again.

and the waves beat and froth the shore
beat and froth the shore
again.

Biography of Martin Egbelwogbe

,,

I sit before flowers
hoping they will train me in the art
of opening up

Shane Koyczan, excerpt from “The Student”

(Source: buddhacoffee, via yutke)

apoetreflects:

Oh praise.  Oh prize.
As woods are to wise.
As woulds are to whys.
As woulds are to wounds.

Never rely on desire to tell you the truth.

—Jill Alexander Essbaum, from The Devastation (Cooper Dillon Books, 2009)

(via yutke)

apoetreflects:

We’ve all led raucous lives,
                                        some of them inside, some of them out.
But only the poem you leave behind is what’s important.
Everyone know this.
The voyage into the interior is all that matters,
Whatever your ride.
Sometimes I can’t sit still for all the asininities I read.
Give me the hummingbird, who has to eat sixty times
His own weight a day just to stay alive.
                                                         Now that’s a life on the edge.

—Charles Wright, from “27,” in Littlefoot (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)

(via yutke)

werhaettedasgedacht:

Die leeren Zeilen sehnen 
nach der Tinte
gefüllt zu werden
mit Worten und mit Farbe
und parallele Striche
gewinnen nun an Inhalt
und Kunst nennt sich
die dunkelblaue Narbe