some days
you’ll find me
whispering my
dreams to
the birds;
telling them
everything im
imagining they’ll
fly to her,
and spill my words.

the syllables to be pronounced or to be suppressed
a prayer wheel broken in the windy commerce of automatic recognition

—Ivan Argüelles (via uutpoetry)



On the morning of my ruin
I will dress in a vest of bees
as the sun crimps the sky
and light spreads, tight,
intricate as a honeycomb
over the home I’ve chosen.
The bees will cloak me; goldenly
close they’ll wander me,
those I once feared,
those who seal the suit of mail
no other ruin can sting.

Sarah J. Sloat

(via gnostix1)

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

—― Antonio Machado (via barcud)

“The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

"In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.”

"I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.”

"Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.”

the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
“What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?”

—― Antonio Machado

Two February’s ago, all I wanted to do was sleep. I was anchored to my bed with the sadness I was letting myself drown in. Now, I daydream about surviving on 3 hours of sleep, I dread going to bed, I keep my eyes open as long as I can. My heart sinks when the sun sets, I crave daylight; I’ve fallen in love with being alive.

—Madisen Kuhn, January 18, 2014 journal entry (via earnestly)

(Source: tsktsks, via calm-canaries)

You’re still searching for me in every woman.

—Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008)

(Source: imdb.com, via scent-of-me1980)


I think I have lived in all winters,
the cold days swelled to weeks that
burgeoned into months. Oh my years, set adrift.
I would like my morrows all summoned
before you, Helios, Apollo, where you can
warm the flesh, make pliant the limbs,
here rigid and stiff.

(via myinkstainedheart)