m-o-ckUp

Posts tagged "love"

I left my(self) so many notes 8.28.2012

I don’t know what im doing or where im going

But I suppose nobody really does

Im thirsty all the time

quenched with poetry and crackers

I cant afford this anymore

I never quite understood

Earn your living

Earn your living?

Earn a living?

That is it

And I guess that is why it is so off putting

Earn a living

Not your living

But a living

And we humans aren’t cut out for that

What a disconnect

breathing isn’t enough to supply you with a right to life

You need to earn it

But how

With what

I still cant seem to accept the fact that in order to live a life you love you must sacrifice

You must re-learn everything you were born knowing

The methods of the know

Are now tied to means you can not afford

Financially

Emotionally

Spiritually

And this makes you uncomfortable. To say the least.

Each day I awake to a morning commute

The air smells of working class angst

And I cant remember a  sunrise without the sounds of our signs

We are stuck

And it only 5pm, and im only 25

Only

Only

Clock out

Would imply freedom of time

But it is only Monday

I arrive home

Everyday

Feeling as if I lost something

Looking back on the years

With a sense of regret

I was there

Making these choices

But I still cant feel present

As if some ghost in my image turned the wheel

As if I gave the permission to do so

so I do not feel cheated or deceived

with nobody to blame

im left

guilty

just guilty

only guilty.

The Day I learned my body was a commodity

i fuck you in hopes to keep my secrets safe in the folds of your skin
but i fear i know where you go 
when your mind holds you hostage

peripherally 
i can see your fingers tangled in the remains of her innocence
though you know the only way out
is to fuck her
and i wonder
in the midst of the moment
can your ears
hear the whispers
of my long lost
lies
can she taste my shame on your tongue?


i beg of you to kill the messenger as
our bodies begin to mangle
and in the weight of the ruins
your goosebumps transformed into braille
so we can longer
make love
without feeling confession
and
the misplaced emotions entrenched 
in my story
that i tried so hard
to tuck away
in your crevices.

Love was something I would not have to worry about - the whole mystery of love, heartbreak songs, and family legends. Women who pined, men who went mad, people who forgot who they were and shamed themselves with need, wanting only to be loved by the one they loved. Love was a mystery. Love was a calamity. Love was a curse that had somehow skipped me, which was no doubt why I was so good at multiple-choice tests and memorizing poetry. Sex was a country I been dragged into as an unwilling girl - sex, and the madness of the body. For all that it could terrify and confuse me, sex was something I had assimilated. Sex was a game or a weapon or an addiction. Sex was familiar. But love - love was another country.
— 出典:― Dorothy Allison, Two or Three Things I Know for Sure
The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
— 出典:

Rumi (via feellng)

i didn’t know, i put a mask over my eyes, so many years

My best friend makes cartoons. #love#teamwork#doinglife

Sisterhood of the traveling yeast infection#love#sister#goodluckcharm (at Atticka Comfortata)

i love you in every pore of my being, and i hope you can feel that more often than not. 

(Source: michellepage)

two years ago I said I never want to write our break up poem
you built me a time capsule full of big league chew
and promised to never burst my bubble
I loved you from our first date …

the first week you were gone
I kept seeing your hand wave goodbye
like a windshield wiper in a flooding car
and the last real moment I believed the hurricane would let me out alive

yesterday i carved your name into the surface of an ice cube
then held it against my heart til it melted into my aching pores
today i cried so hard the neighbors knocked on my door
and asked if I wanted to borrow some sugar
I told them I left my sweet tooth in your belly button
love isn’t always magic…

tonight I begged another stage light to become that back alley street lamp that we danced beneath
the night your warm mouth fell on my timid cheek
as i sang maybe i need you
off key
but in tune…

my knees are bent
like the corner of a page
I am saving your place

— 出典:

andrea gibson

i want to always remember that this is for Kristi, cause andrea says it better than i can

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
implacably from twelve to one.
— 出典:

plath

I will always love you. 

an incident with a view to the Williamsburg Bridge, 1982

i stand before you with

no defenses and nothing
i could possibly say except
what do i know about love


i walk you out into the
East Village night to
see about hailing a cab
sun peeking over the bridge


everything seems to be
coming apart i wonder
when i surrendered to you
what do i know about pain


i wave goodbye to
the back of your head
and turn back to look
at the pink, foamy sunrise

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I, 
When the evening is spread out against the sky 
Like a patient etherized upon a table; 
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 
The muttering retreats 
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 
Streets that follow like a tedious argument 
Of insidious intent 
To lead you to an overwhelming question…                                
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” 
Let us go and make our visit. 

 

 In the room the women come and go 
Talking of Michelangelo. 

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes 
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes 
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening 
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, 
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, 
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                               
And seeing that it was a soft October night 
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. 

And indeed there will be time 
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, 
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 
There will be time, there will be time 
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; 
There will be time to murder and create, 
And time for all the works and days of hands 
That lift and drop a question on your plate;                         
Time for you and time for me, 
And time yet for a hundred indecisions 
And for a hundred visions and revisions 
Before the taking of a toast and tea. 

In the room the women come and go 
Talking of Michelangelo. 

 

And indeed there will be time 
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” 
Time to turn back and descend the stair, 
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—                             
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] 
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, 
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— 
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] 
Do I dare 
Disturb the universe? 
In a minute there is time 
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. 

  For I have known them all already, known them all; 
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                     
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; 
I know the voices dying with a dying fall 
Beneath the music from a farther room. 
  So how should I presume? 

 And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, 
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, 
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, 
Then how should I begin 
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                  
  And how should I presume? 

 And I have known the arms already, known them all— 
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare 
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] 
Is it perfume from a dress 
That makes me so digress? 
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. 
  And should I then presume? 
  And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets            
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes 
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? … 

I should have been a pair of ragged claws 
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 
Smoothed by long fingers, 
Asleep … tired … or it malingers, 
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. 
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, 
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?            
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, 
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, 
I am no prophet–and here’s no great matter; 
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, 
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 
And in short, I was afraid. 

 

And would it have been worth it, after all, 
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, 
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, 
Would it have been worth while,                                        
To have bitten off the matter with a smile, 
To have squeezed the universe into a ball 
To roll it toward some overwhelming question, 
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, 
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all” 
If one, settling a pillow by her head, 
  Should say, “That is not what I meant at all. 
  That is not it, at all.” 

And would it have been worth it, after all, 
Would it have been worth while,                                          
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, 
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— 
And this, and so much more?— 
It is impossible to say just what I mean! 
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 
Would it have been worth while 
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, 
And turning toward the window, should say: 
  “That is not it at all, 
  That is not what I meant, at all.”    

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; 
Am an attendant lord, one that will do 
To swell a progress, start a scene or two 
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, 
Deferential, glad to be of use, 
Politic, cautious, and meticulous; 
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; 
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— 
Almost, at times, the Fool. 

 I grow old … I grow old …                                              
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. 

  Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? 
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. 
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. 

  I do not think they will sing to me. 

  I have seen them riding seaward on the waves 
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back 
When the wind blows the water white and black. 

  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea 
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown           
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

damnnnnnnnnn gurl

The Man Who Wasn’t There

Ed: Frank.

Frank: Huh?

Ed: This hair.

Frank: Yeah.

Ed: You ever wonder about it?

Frank: Whuddya mean?

Ed: I don’t know… How it keeps on coming. It just keeps growing.

Frank: Yeah, lucky for us, huh pal?

Ed: No, I mean it’s growing, it’s part of us. And we cut it off. And we throw it away.

Frank: Come on, Eddie, you’re gonna scare the kid.

Ed: I’m gonna take his hair and throw it out in the dirt.

Frank: What the…

Ed: I’m gonna mingle it with common house dirt.

Frank: What the hell are you talking about?

Ed: I don’t know. Skip it.