ritsuka.There is a lone figure on the stairwell, wilted against the banister like something left behind.ritsuka.
Breathing so fragile that you’d swear it would shatter her, awkward and beautiful like those moments before kissing someone new. Something about the way pale hands rest on the railing makes you think of a dove before a flight, hopeful even while knowing war almost always wins. In this one delicate human there lies both incredible beauty, and sorrow that knows no bounds. and as they vie for control, she struggles through every exquisite heartbeat, writing words that could make the ocean sing.
runaways.There’ve been so many days now that my thoughts won’t show themselves.runaways.
At one time they waited patiently for me, sitting demure is brocade chairs, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly in laps. I called to them as I willed; drawing out whichever tools I needed to paint my stories. But they soon grew restless and tired of my captive ways. One by one my thoughts left me, trailing their fingers against the walls, leaving behind only gossamer prints.
Sometimes I try too hard to force what I want to say, sometimes I cling so strongly that even my words run and hide. To them I woul
welcome home.new jersey was spectacular.welcome home.
i went into the ocean with my gypsy-skirts held up high around my waist. the night was so thick, only cold waves washing up on my feet told me i was there. I followed the white crests, holding my breath and watching the dark shadow of the next one underneath, loving the break sending sand swirling about my feet.
And suddenly, the greatest urge overcame me- to dive in and feel the sea draw me down into caressing jade waters, to feel my body roll in the current. There is something so seductive about a red moon over the pitch black ocean, alluring with the promise of fre
batik peacock 1poetry like teaI never want to know you.poetry like tea
I want to wonder, want to slide back-down and backwards across your glissandos, linger over the breaths and pauses, pour into the warm and dark hollows that you curve into your words, nestle there like water or skin:
I want to sink into the cracks between consonants, smooth them over, find the sighs folded into the velvet roundness of an O, contemplate each brightly fractured e in your name, how it is wrenched open to the world, wounded, and still curled tight as a fist over the wound:
I want to drink poetry like tea, in sips, with
| at one time i had red hair, and it was amazing. now im naturally redishbrownishstrawberryblonde. i dont submit much because im not on much and my scanner is possessed, but i love alot of art on here so youll probably see me bouncing around favoriting things. i probably wont leave a comment, im shy =] |
Devious Journal Entry
Gloomy
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"Art is a shadow of what a person is thinking... a small glimpse of what they hold inside. Little secrets, regrets, joys... every line has its own meaning."
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En Camisole, la Vie est plus Folle.
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"Evolution didn't stop with us getting thumbs. There are a lot of metaphysical, spiritual, and emotional changes going on right now, and we're just trying to reflect that. We're not that different from Tori Amos" ~ Maynard James Keenan
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"The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination."
- Albert Einstein
Thanks for the
--
"The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination."
- Albert Einstein
--
"The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination."
- Albert Einstein
--
"The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination."
- Albert Einstein
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