that poor lady turned to stone

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24. Boston. i appreciate the sassy people in life.


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ah, public transportation

climb the candle to the stone

poetryaboutmilkduds:

vigil to eclipse,
I drew the circle 
to the sound of
a morning blade 
in muggy drip,
the ants my typewriters
wearing second-hand gowns,
but they don’t fight each other
for the last liquid hit,
and that is the pact we expound—
barracks or brownstones—
to every new cap in the huddle
of coiffed businessmen 
whose shoes are partly scraped 
of their ambitious stubble,
whose balance wavers daily 
on the union Pollux asked of,
brothers, incremental embrace,
ticking closer to the sound 
of a morning blade

someone please explain to me the purpose of reinforcing bad form

telling someone their writing is good when it isn’t IS THE WORST THING YOU COULD CONCEIVABLY DO TO SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY CARES ABOUT WHAT THEY WRITE

any time I stick my head into the tags, I end up hating humanity more than I do already

welcome to America - where you get a medal for just showing up

climb the candle to the stone

vigil to eclipse,
I drew the circle 
to the sound of
a morning blade 
in muggy drip,
the ants my typewriters
wearing second-hand gowns,
but they don’t fight each other
for the last liquid hit,
and that is the pact we expound—
barracks or brownstones—
to every new cap in the huddle
of coiffed businessmen 
whose shoes are partly scraped 
of their ambitious stubble,
whose balance wavers daily 
on the union Pollux asked of,
brothers, incremental embrace,
ticking closer to the sound 
of a morning blade

wooden statues

poetryaboutmilkduds:

whittle whittle
want,
but wait,
upon the whispering
kettle’s face
will come the shaves
now rearranged
to whittle whittle,
wipe
you
away

viperslang:

i am in the process of writing an essay/article on the nature/psychology of anonymity on social media, for a mainstream magazine. if any of you women have experienced anon abuse/hate or virtual stalking, please message me.

pass this around.

thank you.

the raconteurs drink tonight

poetryaboutmilkduds:

refractions desperate 
to serve the angles
from which they arrive,
culminating as red 
turns to brown by the 
straddling sun, a clasp
between Europe and Asia
and the prosperous promenade
their marriage has spun,
resurrect in their teeming rise
a picture plowed with all the
seedlings of a photograph,
Monet in his prime arabesque,
a breathless extension,
Giverny melting under the 
dotted brushes against a canvas
wrapped in tear-soaked burlap;

never take less than half,
never give the entire whole

the raconteurs drink tonight

refractions desperate 
to serve the angles
from which they arrive,
culminating as red 
turns to brown by the 
straddling sun, a clasp
between Europe and Asia
and the prosperous promenade
their marriage has spun,
resurrect in their teeming rise
a picture plowed with all the
seedlings of a photograph,
Monet in his prime arabesque,
a breathless extension,
Giverny melting under the 
dotted brushes against a canvas
wrapped in tear-soaked burlap;

never take less than half,
never give the entire whole

"Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life."

Robin Sharma

I. Live. By. This.

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(Source: pureblyss, via knickflannel)