"

My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.

I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.

A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.

I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.

Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.

A word after a word
after a word is power.

At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.

This is a metaphor.

How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.

"

“Spelling” - Margaret Atwood

"

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

"

Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (via marsza)

Say Anything – Cemetery (1,273 plays)

(Source: vectorvexed)

"

The first time a man slapped me on the ass, I was fourteen years old, bussing tables at a family restaurant.

Catcalls make me jump out of my skin. I have never figured out how to take them as a compliment.

When I learned that “no” did not always stop slipping lips and wandering hands, I was sixteen. I was told that it was my fault for being tempting. I haven’t left the house with shorts on for years. It makes me nervous to be alone somewhere with another person when I have a dress on.

I always get uncomfortable when men make jokes about why women go to the bathroom in groups. Nobody likes to hear that we are taught from the youngest age that we should never go anywhere alone.

The second time that “no” did not stop someone, my date pulled up in front of my house and hit the door lock, wrapped his hand around my throat because I told him I just thought we should be friends.

The third time, I was sprawled out on a hammock in the front lawn with a man I’d been out with a handful of times. When I first said “no”, I thought maybe he didn’t hear me. “Please no, please don’t”. “Please no, please don’t.” “Please no, please don’t.”

Once I was told by a man that it was my fault if he ever went too far because his brain was wired like an animal. I didn’t argue. Can you believe that I didn’t argue? I wanted to say that even my dogs recognize the word “no”, but I was afraid of how he would react. I had to sit through the rest of the date with a smile on my face.

I carry my keys just to walk to the mailbox at night. I’m too paranoid to jog down my street alone.

I have been groped on the sidewalk. I have been groped at the bar. I have been groped on the bus.

The time I was followed all the way to my friend’s car by a group of men who stood around laughing and jeering and banging on the windows, not letting us pull out of the parking garage, was the last time I ever let a man buy me a drink at a bar.

I have men in my life who would call themselves my friends who have put their hands on my hips and my thighs without my permission. There is no question. They do not think they have to ask. They laugh when I bristle.

It took twenty-two years to realize only I had a right to my body.

I used to bite my tongue, but I do not say “no” quietly anymore. I bark my discomfort like an old dog, weary and uncomfortable even in its sleep.

"

"this is not a fucking poem; it is an outrage (I Spent Twenty-Two Years Trying To Be Nice About It)" Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

(Source: tristamateer, via fuckyeahwomenprotesting)

sizvideos:

Video

(via flamethrowermouth)

Yet another beer pic 🍺 (at Curragh Holland)

Yet another beer pic 🍺 (at Curragh Holland)

Kanye West – Lost In The World (feat. Bon Iver) (76,785 plays)

(Source: melomoods)

"How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."

Winnie the Pooh (via psych-facts)

(via littlecatlady)

"

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

"

E. E. Cummings, ”Since Feeling Is First”(via colporteur)

(Source: sunrec, via thatkindofwoman)

nevver:

Dead at 81, Joan Rivers

I guess it’s my birthday or something  (at Charlies Ann Arbor)

I guess it’s my birthday or something (at Charlies Ann Arbor)

"
  1. I left my favorite pair of underwear at your house. I know your mother hates me, can I come pick them up?
    [delete]
  2. It’s been almost a month and I still miss you like a fucking limb.
    [delete]
  3. I didn’t know my bones could ache until I met you.
    [delete]
  4. You know, a week before we broke up, do you remember? I had bought a book of poetry. You asked why I didn’t read something more interesting and I could feel my insides splinter.
    [delete]
  5. You said poetry was all lies dressed up to sound pretty. When I look at you these days, I want to ask if sadness sounds pretty to you too.
    [delete]
  6. It’s 3 a.m. and this alcohol tastes like you.
    [delete]
  7. I saw you staring at me today during Lit class. I smiled at you and you didn’t smile back. I almost cried.
    [delete]
  8. The girl who sits next to me smells like you.
    [delete]
  9. I miss you.
    [delete]
  10. I have never had so many bad nights.
    [delete]
  11. Sometimes I write poetry about you on the internet. Strangers who have never met either of us think you’re cruel – they tell me if they had the honor of loving me, we’d have sex three times a day and they’d scream my name when they came.
    [delete]
  12. They think it is beautiful, how I am broken. I don’t think they understand.
    [delete]
  13. You used to tell me I was beautiful. I tried saying it in the mirror the other day, but it sounded wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
    [delete]
  14. Everything I say sounds wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
    [delete]
  15. We were never in love, but, oh God, we could have been.
    [delete]
"

"15 Texts I Almost Sent You" by d.a.s   (via excrutiate)

(Source: backshelfpoet, via desire-todr3am)

"i’m at a point in my life where everything is falling apart and everything is coming together at the same time."

(via prosaic-wonderland)

(Source: kushandwizdom, via petite--fleur)

Last day of freedom

Last day of freedom

welcoMe hoMe 〽️💛💙💛💙  (at University of Michigan)

welcoMe hoMe 〽️💛💙💛💙 (at University of Michigan)