In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.

Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: seabois, via thatkindofwoman)

When I get lonely these days, I think: So BE lonely. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.

—Elizabeth Gilbert
The Love Of A Woman: I cannot stress enough how important that last bit is. (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

(Source: creatingaquietmind, via atomized)

… I don’t believe in God as a kind father in the sky. I don’t believe that the meek will inherit the earth: The meek get ignored and trampled. They decompose in the bloody soil of war, of business, of art, and they rot into the warm ground under the spring rains. It is the bold, the loud-mouthed, the cruel, the vital, the revolutionaries, the mighty in arms and will, who march over the soft patient flesh that lies beneath their cleated boots.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via lifeinpoetry)

Here is the handful
of shadow I have brought back to you:
this decay, this hope, this mouthful
of dirt, this poetry.

Margaret Atwood, “Mushrooms,” from Notes Towards a Poem That Can Never Be Written (via lifeinpoetry)

I still feel that poetry is not medicine — it’s an X-ray. It helps you see the wound and understand it.

—Dunya Mikhail, from an interview (via mitochondria)

(via atomized)

If Christianity is going to mean anything at all for us now, then the humanity of God cannot be a half measure. He can’t float over the chaos of pain and particles in which we’re mired, and we can’t think of him gliding among our ancestors like some shiny, sinless superhero.

—Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss, p. 17 (via recycledsoul)


The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is, on the whole, better even than after sex—and that’s saying a lot.
- Anne Sexton


The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is, on the whole, better even than after sex—and that’s saying a lot.

- Anne Sexton

(Source: , via fuckyeahannesexton)

I want to be all that I am capable of becoming.

—Katherine Mansfield (via jimmorrisonlives)

they say
that the body
repairs itself
at night
when we but sleep,
i always wondered though
when do we
repair our souls.

Della Hicks-Wilsonhealing (via poemusicoffee)

(Source: dellahickswilson, via poemusicoffee)

A man devoid of hope and conscious of being so has ceased to belong to the future.

—Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays (via merkanzee)

(via fuckyeahsartrecamus)

You have to be careful telling things.
Some ears are tunnels.
Your words will go in and get lost in the dark.
Some ears are flat pans like the miners used
looking for gold.

What you say will be washed out with the stones.
You look for a long time till you find the right ears.
Till then, there are birds and lamps to be spoken to,
a patient cloth rubbing shine in circles,
and the slow, gradually growing possibility
that when you find such ears
they already know.

Naomi Shihab Nye, “You Have to Be Careful”, in Words Under the Words (via hiddenshores)

(via birdonwing)

True, I have many voices. I speak like a let-down lover, a diarist, a social critic, straight sass. I fear I am everything, which of course amounts to being nothing.

—Lauren Slater, Prozac Diary (via ikeepsingingthissong)