Brain Soup

the List grew yesterday.

cafeofthedamned:

the Dragon
the Native
the Rabbit
the Gnat
the Signal
the Pill
the Letter
the Roo
the Craze
the Cove

the Letter is new. the Letter is wonderful. the Letter is beautiful.

i’m sure i’m missing some from that list. it’s late and i’m tired. but i want them all. and i want them so bad. and i hate myself for it. i don’t like how selfish it is. but i want them. i want them. i want them. i want them. i want them. i want them. i want them i want them i want them i want them i want them i want them.

cafeofthedamned:

once once once once
is never now and never
tomorrow but once once once
once there was me where
i used to be in the car or 
sleeping once i used to be
something once something once
something that was once important
to once and all i can do is worry that
once was once and the past will
never repeat that once so i’m 
wondering if i can find that once
again and be once just once
again once again once again once

cafeofthedamned:

i died in dopamine,
seretonin’d to death,
happiness killed me
once upon a time when
i could draw the ever increasing
                                                  circles
                         circling and circling and
                         circling and once they found
                                                  orbit
they became ellipses and elliptical and
                         spiraled out of control
while i held the                          pencil in my hand
                         i found that i’d find that figure of
ϕ ϕ ϕ ϕ ϕ ϕ

i found five times that figure                          holding
                         me                          once

                         in                         another

life.

once in another life.
once in another life it was an obsession of 
circles and circles and circles and one one
                                                  two three five
                                                  eight thirteen
                                                  twenty-one

and done and done and done

one one two three five eight thirteen twenty-one
                         where do we find back down to
the abbey                         waiting, where do we
                         feel we fell backwards again

where did we lose ourselves?

driftwoodking:

dedicated to Kyl

I’ll teach you to love,
he insisted.

I’m a poor person
who can’t afford to give
even a failed heart,
I replied.

He talks like he had been lost
too much between the meat
of warm thighs in warmer nights,
but inside him are the loves
that walked away,
left him strangled,
barely breathing,
searching,
dying.

He found his people
found hope, found home
where he lied his head,
because love never
ends in the road.
It leads you to
stranger path and it
had led him
to me.

Love unrequited,
you are ruthless
and no one ever
deserves you.

(via driftwoodking-deactivated201305)

blankslate:

Hey, if you don’t care for what I write, that is perfectly fine. I’m not really super concerned with people talking shit about my writing. But I feel like a lot of people’s actions toward the poetry tag/editors engender a sense of fear among writers to post their own writing on their own blogs, and that is not okay. Different people have different ideas of what is and isn’t “good”, what is and isn’t poetry, and that is okay. I just wish people wouldn’t resort to such negative actions in an attempt to help promote writing that they think is good. Start a reblog blog, follow more people, interact, do positive things. I have the feeling, however, that for a lot of these people it’s about their own frustrations due to lack of recognition. And I get that. I wrote for a long fucking time without being noticed. But writing, for me, is an urge. I can’t stop. I don’t care if anyone sees it or not. I’m not concerned with competition. I never was. This is, and has always been, about expressing the things inside of me that won’t stay still.

Yes.

sinandserotonin:

descartes once said
I think therefore I am

but what exactly am I?

am I what I think I am?

1. I think I am a terrible person.
2. I think I am a withering tree.
3. I think I am nineteen reasons
   to leave the earth to follow
   the destiny of its fault lines.

I think therefore I am
and I think I am
a dying star

so close
to becoming
something in its
silent supernova

and you will not
see the light until
years after I am gone.

I think I am a flower
that died in a wildfire
and was reincarnated
into a frame that did not fit—

I think that the skies
are never perfect
in their greys or
tides of blues.

maybe I am everything
that has ever lived
up until this point.

maybe I have always been this way.

syntaxandsemantics:

mix liquors
like oil paints,
make a rainbow

tag acquaintances in
art, body parts
in murky water

slip home
and wonder
why so lonely

syntaxandsemantics:

spills on dirty pavements,
crumbs of blood
and ashy butts
on spotlit corners
where the people
loiter or scurry past,
verminous and scavenging
for a bit of life
to feed the vacancy,
empty lots
possessed by all
and none
but the city,
chewing carnivorous
on its own limbs,
seeking freedom.

"Would you take my hand?
Would you open up my scars?
Would you share your love?"

“Tonight” by James Andrew Crosby  (via jamesandrewcrosby)

(via jamesandrewcrosby)

I could write a million verses

ian-the-recluse:

and what would it be for
I am alone and you dont acknowledge
me while i type in the dark, and girls
always treat me wrong, like you could see
me, i am not u are what u have seen
you cannot see me, i am otherworld
dead to world, i am out of focus
dont look at me

(via ian-the-recluse-deactivated2013)