Time does us all dirty
We decay slowly
Day by day our flesh
is less fresh
Roughly 8 decades later
we must dig out our souls
and set them free
But time can stop
Gravity does not exist
Clocks do not exist
Our heartbeat is elongated
The light hits you
in such a magnifying angle
You’re like rock ‘n roll, baby
You’ll never get old
You’re like my red songbird
in the barren winter

Time can stop
through this photograph

writingbyella:

Every angel is a monster
And every monster is a victim.
I split one knife eight
Ways, look for a way home
But my legs won’t break.
Dragged from happiness;
I, as a wounded animal,
Vomit up our first kiss.

(via emptyingpens)

What one writes is based so much on the kind of person one is and the kind of environment one’s had, and has now, that one doesn’t really choose the poetry one writes. One writes the kind of poetry one has to write.

Philip Larkin (via poetry-and-insomnia)

When you teach children
that race is a simple
preference, as with
chosing vegetables.
Corn or carrots.
When you teach children
that culture is similar
to a meal, how you can
reject & accept the
ingredients you want to indulge
Less pepper please, and may I substitute this?

When you teach children
to associate the beauty
of other ethnicity as subjective
toys.
When you teach children
the festive traditions
you do not celebrate
give it less purpose.

When you show children
the gods and values
many hold high & grand
are inept as an imaginary
friend or rules in life
such as bedtime.

When you belittle a langauge
When you treat an accent
as an accident.
Your children listen
and they decide that
people are less than
what truly makes them.

This is the path to racism
This is the path to intolerance
The avenue to ignorance
a division,
to seperate & place
how you please.

Do not seep poison into what
you create,
this will shape into a promising storm
that permits no growth.

We are not born with
spite & uncaring hearts.


x The Society That Takes

(via overflowfight)

There are no true wonderlands
to lay rest and call upon as home,
As there sits not a pit to rot
in with doubt and painful apathy;
In the living contraction lies the common few
whose backbone openly resist
the rhythmn that shakes up
common people,
As they fiddle with beat
and tempo. Between trough & peak.
Do not pick at the seams
and equally stray from accompaning
the role of stitching.
No matter how low you lie
uncertain during the night.

The contractions in life
tangle our mind,
soul & body
it wraps around
as precious vines
While sinking it’s lineage-
its origin.
The very roots
that we hold onto first
as our foundation feels threatened.

Happiness is an invasive disease
The welcome mat to wonderland;
A hurricane that reclaims
hard, ridgid land.
A flood eating away at the home
you carefully build.
This Euphoria is an ocean.
With conditions you abide by,
there is no playing it safe.
Drown in delight
or
gaze in jeaously.

Eventually you must release…

Sadness, oh how I love
my darling sadness.
She is my inducing handshake
moments away from the pit. The kiss every artist
secretly craves.

These contractions in life,
they are necessary.
Perhaps a law of nature.
While we meddle in the medium,
their is a concentration of both
in life.


x The Contractions In Living

(via overflowfight)

my selfishness sickens me
sometimes,
in the end i am a despicable
human being.

i love only to be loved in return,
and i do good so good can be
done to me -

what it all comes down to
is that i only ever really
do the things that will

somehow return
a positive outcome for me.

"self reflection" by typical treatment. (1 july 2014)