Hearts, dirt and music (in no order)

S’s Note: How lovely.

thisdeludedwanderlust:

I
am
waiting
for
the
silence
to
stop.

               This
              world
              lacks 
              music
               of
              the
           atmosphere. 

                                   My
                                  father
                                   tells 
                                    me,
                                  “there’s 
                                   music
                                everywhere.

                                                          Sometimes
                                                              it’s
                                                             just
                                                               a
                                                             matter
                                                               of
                                                            listening.”

                                                                                   He
                                                                                  also
                                                                                  says
                                                                                  “we 
                                                                                  bathe
                                                                                   five 
                                                                                  times
                                                                                     a
                                                                                    day
                                                                                     in
                                                                                    the
                                                                                   name 
                                                                                     of
                                                                                    God

                                                                                                 but
                                                                                                 our
                                                                                                hearts
                                                                                                  are
                                                                                                  still
                                                                                                 dirty.” 

                                                             
                                               I wonder if all that dirt has to be
                                                           sought too, just like poetry in the air. 

Tainted glass

Staff Note: This is quite a lovely piece.

deludedwanderlust:

Painted portraits and tainted windows—

dreams peer through vintage glass that is
lined with pictures of Mary and baby Jesus.

                                                                              But a story lies in
                                                                           the cracks and seams
                                                                         that once split and burst
                                                                   apart; a little girl’s hands mended 
                                                                      that very glass. It carries the
                                                                        imprint of her finger tips ;
                                                                         the subtle vapour of her
                                                                           foggy breath which is
                                                                             still crystallized on
                                                                              the same o’ glass

that was recently wiped spotless
of centuries of dust particles that
left after reluctant hours of relentless scrubbing. 

                                            But I can still see the girl’s hazel
                                              eyes wide and distorted, still
                                               caught in the shadows of
                                                past, still caught in that
                                                  rusty ol’ glass;a look
                                                  of resigned seclusion 
                                                and acceptance come to 
                                             pass behind the high planes of
                                         her cheeks and behind the downward 
                                      curve of her smile. She looks on, trying to 
                                  find out who she was, but if only were there any 
                               answers in glass painted windows, we’d all willingly go
 
                                                       to Sunday mass. 

Side note: Sad, but I think most writers can relate to wanting to leave a legacy and for their words to be found

blueskyemergency:

After the door shuts and the footsteps fade, I rise from the bed, letting the sheet drop to the floor.

I walk to the door and open it slowly, peeking out a bit, making sure she is gone.

I shut the door and turn the lock until I hear the soft click letting me know it is in place. I open my closet and reach up, moving shoe boxes until I can see my journal. I pull it down and blow the dust off the cover. I take it to my desk and lay it down, opening it to the first clean page I find. I pull open a drawer to find my quill and some black ink and I begin to write.

I’m sick, diagnosed with terminal cancer at age seventeen.

No one knows I write, and no one will know until I die. I hope that when the day comes that I can no longer rise from my bed, someone will find my journal hidden on the top shelf of my closet. I hope that they see how happy I was and how passionate I was. I hope my writing touches someone, somewhere… someday.

Side note: Beautiful and moving, I love this. 

blueskyemergency:

She ripped the wings off of dragonflies and glued them to the backs of her dolls. “Now my dolls are angels mommy,” she told me, “they can go visit grandma and tell her we love her.” I smiled with tear-filled eyes.

“Grandma knows we love her, baby,” I said.

She smiled, but looked down. “I just wish I could send grandma a letter in the mail like the ones she used to send me for my birthday.”

I picked her up. “Oh, but you can,” I told her. She looked at me with questioning eyes. “Look,” I said, grabbing a sheet of printer paper. “Write to grandma on here with your coloring pens.”

She took out her box of pens and started writing ‘Grandma’ at the top. She colored a picture of them holding hands and smiling, ending it with her name at the bottom of the page. “All done mama,” she said, folding the paper in half.

“Okay, baby,” I smiled, “now watch.” I put a log in the fireplace and waited for the flame to grow. I set her note right on the very top of the log.

I picked her up and carried her out to our front lawn. I turned around and pointed to the chimney. “See the smoke,” I asked her. She nodded. “That is magical smoke. It carries your letter up to grandma so she can see it. That’s why it floats into the sky and then disappears. When it turns invisible, that means grandma is reading it.”

moonlight

Side Note: Can relate to this so much.

irrelevanceisbliss:

Words are blank
as thoughts are bleak
the moon so large
it leaves these streaks
within my eyes
of longing for skies
we used to watch
together.

                                                                          Instead
                                                                          I stare
                                                                          alone. 

Chaoptic

Side note: This was pointed out to me, it’s brilliantly written - it’s just a shame there’s  not more of this writer’s work on his page. 

sentienthaze:

In forms of corrosion come rabble reforming

At least, an explosion of habit; ignore

Sing the rhythms of panic, the quenched, we abnormal

An ultimate havoc, we’re drenched and informal

And all the while pointing, behold the obscenities

Gruesome anointing of mold’s lost amenities

Sheathing the remnants, old shadows still wailing

Belittling REM dance, rest had? No, will failing

Scratching, next offer, move quickly, abandoned

Unlatching hexed coffer, prove sickly a random

Head down

Head down

-GG

existentialism

Side Note: Just… this.

irrelevanceisbliss:

It’s okay to run screaming,
streaming away from everything
never forgotten or moved past,
allow yourself time to cry
and feel like dying before you
regain the strength to fly above
all of these blackened weights
holding you to the waterlogged
ground, bogged down by years
of empty, hopeless tears embedded
deeply in fears of feeling.
Run faster, past dreams of futures,
sure never to exist in existential
realities, fueled by fading fantasies. 

Side Note: Love this poem but especially the last line…LOVE.

irrelevanceisbliss:

Waking up to an empty house,
no noise but shadows’ sounds
to creep in on sleeping dreams,
laying in wait behind sleepless
doors and more of emptiness.

Shadows are peaceful,
blissful and serene.