May 2012
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Dear Writer,
whenboredatwork:
Create me within your mind weave me into an erotic idea from the depth of your imagination
Give birth to a babe that is me let my embryo flow from your pen as ink onto your script, my bedding
Cradle me in your unspoken verses and sing lullabies in spoken word feed me profoundness and wisdom
Watch...
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eventually
whoartgos:
you retreat into your pages, and notes and the moments you’d rather forget wonder why the streetlights are filled with ink it hisses as we walk underneath and occasionally something worthwhile is written, due to the inevitable passing of time
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It must be a dull ear which would be satisfied with the omission of rhythm and...
– Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (via sleepinginthesnow)
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Mourning
splintersandmilkshakes:
The hushed chaos of a May morning greets my blurry eyes. The glare of consciousness trickles in like sunlight streaming through Venetian blinds. I hear a symphony of raindrops on the shingles above, as I gingerly rise to my feet and give the day a shove.
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When a writer sleeps
subtlebones:
We strip ourselves from
the rest of the world —
fold our bleeding pages
over our feeble knees
and whisper to the one we
desire instead of
thanking God.
We hear the cries and
reply with somber assurance
that those in pain are not
the only lonely dwellers,
begging to dream.
But we close our eyes soon
enough and watch the
skies twirl above our heads —
knowing we’ll...
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