There is freedom waiting for you, On the breezes of the sky, And you ask 'What if I fall?' Oh but my darling, What if you fly?
Erin Hanson
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The Quiet World BY JEFFREY MCDANIEL
читать дальшеIn an effort to get people to look into each other’s eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover, proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn’t respond, I know she’s used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love you thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.
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somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near
читать дальшеyour slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
e.e. cummings
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читать дальшеmy cat is sad. no one else in his family is a cat we are all human except for him he is excluded from most things and no one tells him why he just wants to play and be loved he looks at us with wonder and disappointment he says hello i am a cat what is my existence what is that / why it and not me / please can you look at me and love me too can i have some of your food please im sorry i dont like my food so much do you want to play with my toys? this one is my favourite do you like me are we brothers why didnt i grow up why am i so small can you help me be happy where are you going
Spencer Madsen
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и обожаю авторов с тумбы
first. he touches you and you light on fire. your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin. the burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs. it’s so hard to breathe. you’re suffocating daily. читать дальшеsecond. it hurts to watch him. he shines. he’s brighter than the sun, he’s too beautiful for your eyes. it’s hard to look at him. it’s even harder to look away from him. you’re going blind. third. your ears are tuned to his voice. you could pick him out in a sea of thousands. his voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. his voice makes everything else sound ugly. fourth. the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in. he is turning you into a clichéd love-wrecked being. you’re drowning, always sinking. down, down, down. fifth. you know him. you love him. through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you’d find him, you’d never leave him. you love him, till death do you part. ( sixth. he loves you, too. ) five things you know and the one thing you don’t. 19/09/14 (via eposetties)
May I hand you my heart And will you receive it with reverence Like I’ve given to you the wholeness of the earth?
Will you be breathless as I am Hand atop hand, As I gently pour, into the lines of your palms:
1000 nights of restless sleep 500 shades of different colored skies 100 heart beats per solid minute And 1 of the many breaths You have unwittingly taken from my lungs.
This is a profession of numbers A quantification of affection, And in attempt for normalcy, I ask:
– Will you marry me? Poetic Proposals # 1, n.t.
и
We bless the craters of the moon with names, Yet we are not allowed to honor The marks on our body.
And so, I sanctify my own indentations: Abenezra, the flare of red across my forehead Kastner, the remnants of wounds on my knees Humboldt, the lines of my body stretching and growing, Bohr–the faded scars on my wrist.
There is no room here For your footsteps, Or your flags.
I claim my own landscape.
– Houston, we have a problem: she loves her own body. I repeat: she loves her own body! n.t.