(Source: kejczor, via canibepizza)
she dances in a tasseled skirt glittering to her knees
hoping the light catches just right, just right enough
to detract from the glistening tip of her nose and
the steady rouging of her cheeks that never seem
to look just sallow enough, just sallow enough
to attract a business suit and tie with gold
cufflinks to match the gold pin on her collarbone,
so she shakes and swivels her hips just enough
in tune to the ratta tat tat and the cry from the horn,
her mother’s scorn her father’s torn
to shake and swivel the scratch of calloused hands
from her alabaster waistline
she’s thinking just enough into that far ahead
without getting lost in the shuffle
instead she hears the crack of her sister’s heels against the
parquette floor and the bartender answering the
calls for more the vibration of the tuba through her
core and wondering how she could still be
sore
(Source: manic-paniic)
i don’t title my poems but this one’s called warsan shire
it’s ten o’clock and we are
bashing our heads and banging our knuckles
drumming on the countertop of life
bruising until purple
to add color to a uniformly washed out hide
poking and prodding just to know we’re alive
someone once said you can’t make homes out of human beings
well they sure haven’t met you
the exit signs are passing
but the highway’s calling too
(Source: manic-paniic)
If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness.
— A phrase that was carved on the walls of a concentration camp cell during WWII by a Jewish prisoner (via mickshagger)
(Source: notclarissa, via 87daysbefore)
in one year and six days
I will graduate from high school
I will be seventeen years old
and I will still not have a clue about anything.
I will be expected to drop everything I’ve clung to helplessly these past four years
so I can soothe my raw hands
and flex my fingers to start it all again.
I’m already numb.
I will leave my home
I will sleep on a worn mattress
I will drink on the weekends and nights before an exam and mornings after
because it’s what I’m supposed to do
and it’d be blasphemy to question any of it.
I will study the faces of the crowd at the last ceremony and
ingrain them into my memory
knowing it will be the last time in the next eighty years of living
that we will ever meet again.
I will think of the nights spent wired and exhausted and recorded
and buzzed and gasping and laughing louder and louder into the darkness to see if we’re really alive
I will think of the mornings in the hall spent huddled in a corner
greeting the day will withered grins and worn excuses
I will think of the blinding wattage of lights in the ceiling
think of the smell of hardwood wax
think of the secure click of a lock
think of the three signal bell
I will think of you
and you
and you
and you
and him
and her
and them
and I will grin
another withered grin.
when I find my gaze absently following the trail of a jetliner in the sky
whose stream cuts a slice deep into the atmosphere
I wonder if I could somehow pry the crack open with my bare hands
ripping open the earth like a curtain
and be swallowed by the open gash
of course our dreams are nothing but auras
our shoes will never contour the ground around us and
no one will watch our footage and reemerge to do something profound
the current will sweep us away and into a cubicle
awake in the morning to a gray ceiling and the weight of monotony
next to a silent stranger you will see from 6 to 10
because the world does not care it does not care it is luck
what you transfer onto paper is as durable as sand sifting through withered fingers
the world does not care it does not care
who the fuck are you
screaming into the atmosphere the sun will not scream back
everyone has the same illusion which means you all have more in common than you say
blistered hands blistered thoughts
a kink in your neck from that weight on your shoulders
your words are those of everyone else
there is no god thus god has not chosen you
zip up your jacket to hide your wounded pride and that crack in your middle
bleeding from the outside in
and melt into the stream
(Source: manic-paniic)
I want you to pray
I want you to pray so goddamn hard that your knuckles peel and chap and
your knees chafe away to the bone as you kneel at the foot of your bed each night
I want you to cry
I want you to cry so goddamn hard that each solitary tear fans across your cheek just to be able to touch the others
until you can feel yourself cleansing
and you can take a breath while the streaks fade to clarity
I want you to laugh
I want you to laugh so goddamn hard you question what has ever been wrong with the world and how could everything not be right
right here right now everything is flawless
every time you run a comb through your hair and find that there aren’t any knots
every time you wake in the night and think of him
every time just every goddamn time
I want you to run
I want you to run so goddamn hard your legs collapse in numbness and your
lungs burn with the remorse of every cruel thing you’ve ever said
to someone you can’t live without
as if somehow it could incinerate like debris and dissipate into thin air
I want you to love
I want you to love so goddamn hard your heart balloons at the sight of passing strangers
you greet each of them and think of all the times you saw the face of someone broken
hoping somehow a simple wave can expose how reparable things are
you hope you
pray you
cry you
laugh you
run you
love you love you
love.
(Source: manic-paniic)
I think it’s funny how I have no belief in God
yet feel the tangible evil in the world and associate it with a being that has manifested itself from the most hideous depths of the human soul.
I actually don’t find it funny at all I think it’s hypocritical I think it’s cynical and I think the world is black
and I think covering that up with the veil of a protective throne in the sky is anything but helpful
but I see how it can be entirely assuring.
that’s why I’m passive about the beliefs of those closest to me
who the fuck am I to judge
and believe me
I know how good it can be to instill your full trust in something
and have the world seem okay once again,
even if only for a little while.
I can’t think of anything better.
I’d like to believe in something
at least I think I do
because my grandfather and ebony and dominic and mj and stella and raoul and krystal campbell and the children of newtown and the men leaping from the gaping fire pit in the stomach of the twin tower
they have to be somewhere
they have to be
they have to be
they have to be
