Apr 5

Apr 3
My newest follower, kicking it on the spoken word scene.

benjaminsolah:

One of my more ‘slam poetry’ type pieces from a few years back.


Jan 8

Dec 11

Six Words #6

viperslang:

andlohespoke:

did violence
make me
a writer?

did writing
make me
violent?


Nov 19
Behind all of this work is the deep, probing, penetrating interest in the mysterious is the legacy of the Pluto in Scorpio Generation (1984-1995). There is a deep fascination with sex, power, and the occult as well. Hypnosis, karate, and other mental and physical training techniques are likely to be very popular with your age group. The love of mystery is also likely to bring a revival of mystery novels and movies; your age group will bring the macabre into current fashion and style. The Merlin Report (via astrolocherry)

Oct 24

1. There will be some days when you close your eyes while crossing the street, maybe because you want to see what fate has in store for you, or maybe because your depression is running rampant again and you don’t know how to calm her. It’s okay. I will still love you.

2. There will be a year, or a series of years when your birthday doesn’t feel special. Celebrate anyway. Because people spent time baking you a cake and buying you cards and even if they’re your family and they’re obligated to, they still love you. Cherish that love. Revel in it. It is the best gift you will ever receive.

3. You will learn that the saddest word in the English language is stay. Whether it’s your mother’s voice whispering it before you leave for college, or your ex-lover’s desperate screams as you walk out of the house, it will always be a hard word to hear. Sometimes you should listen to it, other times you shouldn’t. Trust yourself. Go with your gut.

4. Along with hearing the word stay, you will also hear the word why from every person who is remotely related to you. Why did you get that tattoo? Why did you try to kill yourself? Why aren’t you married yet? You don’t have to answer them. Be selfish. Keep some things to yourself.

5. Some nights you won’t be able to sleep. You will lie awake at 2 am and contemplate existentialism and wonder if the French had a point. Get up. Get out of your bed. Do something. Because even if there is no God, what you do matters, who you are matters. You matter to me.

6. Some days you will want to run away and never return. So go. Drive to a small town in the Northwest, maybe Oregon, and settle down there for a while. Tell people your name is Elizabeth, because you loved Jane Austen as a child and because this a town full of strangers and who’s to know the difference? Don’t be selfish. Call your mother each night and remind her that you love her. Come back home when you find yourself seeing your sadness painted in the shadows, and when you feel more at home in the arms of a stranger than on your own.

7. There will be several nights when you lose yourself in the medicine cabinet, because liquor and morphine seem like a faster cure than time. It’s okay. I will still love you in the morning.

8. One day, in the midst of work, you will learn to forgive. It will start out with a simple reminder of the past, maybe a facebook notification from an old schoolmate or a wedding announcement from an ex-lover. In that moment you will learn that yearning for the past isn’t romantic, it’s stupid, and that if Gatsby had just let go of the green light he would’ve lived. So forgive your past, it didn’t know any better, and move on.

9. Leaving home will hurt, but soon you will learn that home isn’t a place but a feeling, and that there is a compass on your heart that points directly to that feeling. Follow that compass. Don’t get sidetracked by boys who don’t care or alcohol that doesn’t forgive. If you follow that compass, no matter how lost you get, you will always have a home.

10. The hardest lesson you will ever learn will be to love yourself. But you can do it. There will always be days when you hate yourself, days when you wish you had never been born. But darling you are beautiful, and if Shakespeare had met you you would’ve inspired his 18th sonnet, and if Monet had known you he would’ve given up painting water lilies and chosen to paint you instead. I know it’s hard to love yourself, but sometimes it’s okay to be a little selfish with your love.

11. When you begin to feel worthless, remember that the stars died for you. You are made of elements that are thousands of years old, elements that make up every atom of your being. When you want to cut your wrists, remember that the souls of stars live in your veins. Don’t kill them. Don’t be selfish.

12. Some days will be beautiful. Live for those days. Live for the days when the sun shines on your soul and the smile on your face isn’t forced. Live for the days when you don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks because your scars are a part of your story and you don’t need someone else’s approval to wear them with pride.

Live for the life you always wanted but were too scared to pursue.

Live for you. Live for me. Live for every person who has ever loved you, for the people who have come before you so that you may be here today.

Live for the fire that burns in your soul, that tells you: keep going, you’re almost there, just a little farther. Because when Rome burned down the emperor didn’t run away, he stayed and he sang for his people. Stay. Sing for your people. Sing for us.

Are you listening? Because this is your life, singing a siren song to capture your attention and steer away from the rocks, to guide you back home.

The Twelve-Step Program for Life, by M.K.  (via laughitout-v2)

(via eattentiondeficitdisorder)


any day, now, i expect to read in the paper that sir oliver lodge, or somebody else who keeps right in touch with all the old crowd, has received a message from the great beyond announcing that the spirits have walked out for a forty-four-hour week, with time and a half for overtime, and government control of ouija boards. and it would be no more than fair, when you come right down to it; something ought to be done to remedy the present working conditions among the spirits. since this wave of spiritualism has broken over the country it has got so that a spirit doesn’t have a minute to himself. the entire working force has to come trooping back to earth every night to put in a hard night’s labor knocking on walls, ringing bells, playing banjos, pushing planchettes round, and performing such parlor specialties. the spirits have not had a quiet evening at home for months. the great beyond must look as deserted as an english lecture platform. dorothy parker, ‘as the spirit moves’, 1920. (via purpleamerica)

(via kathleenjoy)


Oct 23

Favorite Star Trek couples (canon and fanon) - Jean-Luc Picard and Q

"This human emotion, love, is a dangerous thing, Picard, and obviously you are ill-equipped to handle it. She’s found a vulnerability in you. A vulnerability I’ve been looking for for years. If I had known sooner, I would have appeared as a female."


Sep 6

we had lived
between the snug coffins of ballot boxes
& the whistling homonyms of rebel
bullets
we had lived
tongues embroidered with prayers
a paisley meshwork of martyred
alphabet
the salt of god’s absence rinsed into
our wounds
we had lived
in the light of posthumous candles
glowing like the teeth of cowrie shells
floating amidst guttered margins of rain
our fingers fossilized to shale
our knotted murmurs
our shattered sorrows
oh. to tell them, how
we had lived
eyes plundered of dreams
the architecture of our will
once peopled with lullabies
and hosannas
now a slender grave
within the broken spine
of apologetic books
our laughter halted midway
as though an asthmatic locomotive
we have lived with touch
reduced to a palimpsest
scratched by the pinpricks
of secretly detonated years
we couldn’t feel one another
for the fear of setting off landmines
held hostage beneath our bones
quietly, we carried on
as though an obituary unfolded within
our wrists. the softness of which
once rivaled the lips of strawberries
now rotted silently
in veins sliced like precut ham.
now this old hulk of meat. we had
lived with destiny etched on our foreheads
in the deft prophesy of a rosetta stone
our aftermath baited
under the oil-stained floodwaters
of dawn leaking its dregs into the
cadenced bridges of
our breath caught between
the muezzin’s unthreaded hands
& the mason jar of our memories

we had lived
as refugees & roadkill
as hobos & heirs
as grief & grenades
but mostly we have lived
as nameless storytellers
reaching our pen right into
the unfilled gaps of your hearts
so you could read the fine print
of our exile
after we had had been erased

Scherezade Siobhan©  (via viperslang)

Sep 5

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