hmthemes

blythebrooklyn:

sierrademulder:

buttonpoetry:

Sierra DeMulder - “The Unrequited Love Poem” (Poetry Observed)

"A soul mate is not the person who makes you the happiest, but the one who makes you feel the most."

As part of our collaboration with Poetry Observed, we’re re-releasing the original series of videos we filmed with them in 2012, the first video project Button ever worked on, on the Button YouTube. 

This is still probably one of my favorite poems I’ve ever written. Thanks for sharing buttonpoetry!

classic

Always carry a notebook. And I mean always. The short-term memory only retains information for three minutes; unless it is committed to paper you can lose an idea for ever.
Will Self (via maxkirin)
The self-portrait: Swallowing glass chips to stay interesting. Keeping my insides cut so at least something comes out when I open my mouth. Spitting up blood. Calling it poetry. Calling it a performance. Calling it everything but what it is. Self-deprecation for the sake of humility. Self-dissolution to keep them guessing. Playing the same game until it stops becoming one. Turning tricks until they become habit. Here are some jokes I’ve made so many times they’ve lost their punchline: Texting late at night, check. Bleeding dirty thoughts and regret. Throwing up and forgetting the mess. Getting thin out of pure neglect. Check. Check. Check. This isn’t a way to grow up, but what else is there? Nice house? Nice car? Nice mouth? Nice girl? Wait. Didn’t you used to be such a nice girl? (I stole that line right out of the mouth of the concerned aunt who gave me a once-over last Christmas.) Let’s try this again. Nice girl. Nice girls don’t stay out late. They don’t forget their friends. They don’t drop everything and move for the sake of adventure. Nice girls don’t lie in the middle of the street and call it therapy. They don’t know how to become ghosts in two seconds flat. Nice girl. What happened to her? Killed her. Cursed her. Kept her hungry in the basement for so long that she gave up and went home. Pushed her aside and cared for poetry, coffee, and burnt curtains instead. Nice girl. Why don’t you call her up again? Ask her where she’s been? Ah, but where’s the fun in that?
The Self-Portrait | Lora Mathis 
It’s good fun writing like you’re insane  (via lora-mathis)

thebookofnights:

what I mean to say is,
I’m really sick of poems about love.

there are a thousand nameless emotions
and each one is a different weight
and texture, so how do I just keep finding
one free-verse stanza after another
describing how it feels to drown?

okay, that’s fine,…


frankocean:

i miss all the tension
when all this is over
i’m moving to ghana
you sus and you watching me
they used to be brown
now them contacts is green
why the fucks u finessing me
i know how many licks
it’ll take me to get
to the center of ecstasy
how come the ecstasy
only depresses me…

Nothing in the world smells as good as the person you love.
Unknown (via sofarfetched)
Apparently orgasm is the only point where your mind becomes completely empty, you think of nothing for that second. That’s why it’s so compelling, it’s a tiny taste of death. Your mind is void, you have nothing in your head save white light.
Jeff Buckley (via desinercia)
brightwalldarkroom:

“The End was coming soon. I married someone from the religion, a boy named C. I was nineteen and he was twenty. I did not know him very well. C worked the night shift, so I did not see him much. When I returned in the evening he was usually already gone. Sometimes I thought I was imagining him. If I woke late, he would be home and sleeping beside me. I watched him sleep and wondered if he was dreaming. Did he dream about me? He was an unknowable as a photograph.
My days were spent in class. One day my film class screened La Jetée, the story of a man haunted by a single moment, only to discover that the moment is the scene of his own death. I watched it with fascination and horror. Here was the black and white world, the post-apocalyptic After that followed the rumored End. No one wants to live there. It is frozen and perpetual, suspended in static frames. Only a single, blinking moment of real time, a lovers’ gaze, provides relief. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until that moment. Suddenly I was gasping, released from stasis. A look of love and recognition–––the world seemed to hinge on this axis.
I walked home from class through dirty snow. We had a blizzard that winter, unusual for Virginia. Tree branches and snow, soot and snow, charcoal and snow. Everything was black and white, frozen and imperfect.”
—Jenny Hollowell, "The End of the End" (Issue #9, Feb. 2014)
 

brightwalldarkroom:

The End was coming soon. I married someone from the religion, a boy named C. I was nineteen and he was twenty. I did not know him very well. C worked the night shift, so I did not see him much. When I returned in the evening he was usually already gone. Sometimes I thought I was imagining him. If I woke late, he would be home and sleeping beside me. I watched him sleep and wondered if he was dreaming. Did he dream about me? He was an unknowable as a photograph.

My days were spent in class. One day my film class screened La Jetée, the story of a man haunted by a single moment, only to discover that the moment is the scene of his own death. I watched it with fascination and horror. Here was the black and white world, the post-apocalyptic After that followed the rumored End. No one wants to live there. It is frozen and perpetual, suspended in static frames. Only a single, blinking moment of real time, a lovers’ gaze, provides relief. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until that moment. Suddenly I was gasping, released from stasis. A look of love and recognition–––the world seemed to hinge on this axis.

I walked home from class through dirty snow. We had a blizzard that winter, unusual for Virginia. Tree branches and snow, soot and snow, charcoal and snow. Everything was black and white, frozen and imperfect.”


—Jenny Hollowell, "The End of the End" (Issue #9, Feb. 2014)

 

Choose a life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers… Choose DSY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit crushing game shows, stucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away in the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself, choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that?
Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting (via thesugarelephantcafe)
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