The orchestra closes
The dancer kneels shedding a tear as the lights draw down
Personifying perfection, she retires to solitude
Unraveling herself has revealed her wounds
Baring her soul has taken its toll
Satin only hides blood stains for so long
There is something tragic and beautiful about falling in love with a ghost—the unspoken words of experience that lingers in the air, and I was good at it.
I turned moments into poetry.
You can’t help loving a poem.— The embodiment of things that can’t be fully explained, like love. Like falling in love.
My first experience of love was meeting in the midnight hours. It was laying in the cul-de-sac and looking up at the stars. It was notes tucked into trees by the lake. It was being given a book of love poems; with a page marked with words meant for me. It was giving my journal, myself, in written form to someone else and having it returned with a page that said, “I LOVE YOU”.
What else is love than having someone accept you for who you really are?
But it wasn’t real.
And then like the Santa Ana winds it disappeared seemingly without notice. Because love, to me, was a fairytale. It was moments made into poetry.
I lived inside the poem and not the moment.
I have honed my craft in building structures out of words.
Surrounded my heart with a home built on heartbreak, graffitied the walls with every broken promise and lie. Boarded the windows and nailed them shut.
I built a maze of hopes winding underneath but always leading back to the same heartbroken home.
I have been living in a world of yesterday’s and tomorrow’s possibilities but never the moment.
My heart is aching for a demolition.
"You will always be too much of something for someone: too big, too loud, too soft, too edgy. If you round out your edges, you lose your edge."
— Danielle LaPorte (via tirhase)
A dancing mind leads to stumbling feet. A head filled with
words unspoken. A heart longing for another’s reach.
I have to remind myself that the dance is the poem tonight, not the words.
"I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, ‘Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know’."
— Ernest Hemingway (via seeyou-invancouver)
"I think people would be happier if they admitted things more often. In a sense we are all prisoners of some memory, or fear, or disappointment—we are all defined by something we can’t change."
— Simon Van Booy
(Source: blogut, via songofanothersummer)
You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing and dance, and write poems, and suffer, and understand, for all that is life.
—Krishnamurti (via northorchard)
— (via themidnightmuse)
(Source: occult101, via themidnightmuse)
It’s the spaces she reads.
The hollowness that exists
in between the breaths you take
before the next word
exits the corners of your lips.
live within the words
we chose not to say.
Mahoney : Mutant… when you look at me, what do you see?
Henry : Really pretty eyes.
Mahoney : No. I mean… like, do you see a sparkle?
Henry : You mean, now? Like, glitter on your face?
Mahoney : No, like, you know, a sparkle.
Henry : I… What kind of sparkle?
Mahoney : Like… something reflective of something bigger that’s trying to get out…