(Source: infernal92)
big sur little sur
I can see it, don’t think I can’t. I can see how I let my words flow like hot lava, and how much you hate it. How oppressive the mornings are when neither of us want to understand each other; too much has been said, too much has torn. You can’t mend all tears in fabrics like ours. Not with a destroyer like me. I need a gentle place to sink my teeth in, not your skin. I want a quiet place to be at war with myself because I’ll never hear the end of it from anyone else. I can see you secretly wishing you never took the chance because now all you want is to escape. No worries, dear, I do, too— so much more than anyone knows.
is it so hard to forgive the way
that we’ve been made to live?
how much is required to set things right?
(Source: shaninaross)
the least that can be said of today
As always, days drop off the calendar like flies and I have less time than is reasonable to get things done. I feel angry for my lack of discipline when it comes to doing what seems to be normal for everyone else. I move like molasses and everyone else is hot oil on a pan, jumping and crackling and moving at the speed of sound.
There is no reset button or way to drag these heavy feet any faster.
(Source: brain-d-a-m-a-g-e, via proximaesperanza)
if you want any flowers, you’ve got to put your seeds in.
(Source: quietmanblog)
daylight is hard
Oh, how I act like I’ve got anything to lose at all.
I haven’t changed a bit
(I make the same mistakes)
pouring rain knows no boundaries
The rain is threatening my complete isolation from today. I woke up this morning like I woke up from a coma; the canoes and highways that led to you were much shorter in my dreams. I nearly drove by that makeshift lake last night, in desperation for the moments I could have had, for the things I am only now beginning to remember. Instead I now have a heart so heavy that I am convinced it could only have been filled with stones.
yes is a world
and in this world of yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds
— from “love is a place” by e. e. cummings
in absence
How else can I put it? Today feels unabashedly, unprettily heavy. I slowdance with myself because I don’t want to forget how to. Lead lungs and flittering thoughts keep me jealous of every fearless Someone, and I am looking down the driveway for next season to arrive.
(Source: jestergod, via proximaesperanza)
