(via repersonne)

Richard Siken - Seaside Improvisation

(via thesummerofmark)

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieren volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.

Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena de alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.

Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.

Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre de que no sea cierto.

modestmark:

I TAG EVERYTHING I WRITE AS POETRY BECAUSE EVERYTHING I DO IS POETRY/
POETRY IS EVERYTHING AND EVERYTHING IS POETRY/
I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING AND BRUSH MY TEETH AND ITS POETRY/
PRODUCT REVIEWS ON AMAZON ARE POETRY/
YOU ARE MADE OF POETRY/
I AM MADE OF YOU ARE MADE OF ME AND I LOVE YOU AND THATS A LOVE POEM/
HASHTAG POETRY I FOLLOW YOU TO THE MOON AND WHILE DRIVING/
AND IN MY DREAMS/

#POETRY #YOLO, SERIOUSLY #STARS #BEAUTIFUL MORNING #SUNSET

PUBLISH ME ON YOUR LITZINE OF LIFE.

There is a recurring dream you have
in which a boy with curling hair takes
the butter knife from the second drawer
and drives it slowly beneath
the thumbnail of your right hand.

He is wearing plaid and a grin
and his teeth are perfect
and you want to take that same knife,
drag it along…

this makes me really uncomfortable
fuck yeah, art

(via jeffmangyum)

(via blackstoneblackstone)

Love, most blinding of all feelings,
oft’ conceals such shady dealings
as when its arrow hits but one -
reveals to him the radiant sun;
and yet the other does not feel,
not being struck by Cupid’s Seal.

And so the smitten strives in vain
his sweet love’s favor to obtain,
and finds in this complete futility
a strange but sweet sort of tranquility;
though true love he cannot find,
to his own heart he soon grows blind.

Alas, at some point he remembers
that love’s fire has cooled to embers -
that the feeling which once burned
within his heart has simply turned
into a dream that he himself dares not fulfill;
Love’s song has ceased its once-sweet trill.

So he reverts to his deep gloom,
and revels in that passion’s bloom.
Perhaps, he thinks, he’ll try again,
and hopes this time he can sustain
that magic which he lost before -
a love which could not be ignored.

But then his doubt begins to gnaw -
he is reluctant to withdraw
from what he thought was stable ground
and now he fears that he might drown -
he cannot know what might result
when he rejoins Love’s sacred cult.

And so the cycle soon resumes;
he breathes again Love’s heady fumes,
but only to be turned away
as apathy-ward he re-strays.
To this cruel wheel he bends each breath
until he’s mastered by Love’s only master, Death.