If poetry was sin,
I’d wade through lakes of blood
up to my fucking ankles.
I need for you to understand this:
I do not write because I am vulnerable.
I do not write because my eyes are bloodshot
or because my sheets are stained.
I do not write because
you’re breath on my neck
makes me weak in the knees.
No baby, I write because
my bones are thinning from malnourish.
I write because I am starving.
Abbie Nielsen (via passionandcoffeestains)
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
Thomas Hardy (via observando)
My parents find it hard to punish me now because I literally care about nothing now
(Source: america-n, via harrysicing)
Poetry is what happens
when nothing else
Charles Bukowski (via larmoyante)