Tag Archives: Poetry

08 Thursday May 2014

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“According to string theory,
somewhere out there is a universe
where looking into a mirror shows the face
of your true love.
Every day you would look into their eyes
and know you were born to make this person happy,
this person whose appearance doesn’t matter
in the slightest
because even on their worst days
they’re still filled with light.
You would watch them grow up
and get bad haircuts and
cry at odd hours and smudge their makeup
and the whole time you would think:
Good god, but are you
perfect
to me.
Here’s the thing:
you already live
in that universe.
You have already seen the person you should love
above all else
because every time you look in the mirror,
you see yourself.”
And good god, but you are perfect to me /// r.i.d

Art is a Facebook status about your winter break

07 Wednesday May 2014

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“I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.”
b.e.fitzgerald (Art is a Facebook status about your winter break.)

I’m Only Lonely When I’m Losing

06 Tuesday May 2014

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,

“it’s simple.
i fall into you, you fall into me.
the world goes on.

stars explode behind my eyes each time
you deign to press your hand to mine
as if you haven’t even noticed that your skin’s a supernova.

i think you broke my “off” button.
because with you on my radar, i’m on, on, on.
eyes crinkled at the corners and mouth curved up
because i’m so far gone, i’m so far gone.
i look at your picture sometimes and sigh.

each morning i pour thoughts of you from my mind,
kiss the corners of your dog-eared pages
as i slide you back in place amongst the books
of selfish senselessness inside my bookshelf heart.
i’m not the kind of person you’re begging to remember.

my veins are your love letter, pressing close under my skin
as they call sweet songs for you. if you hadn’t yet realized,
your smile times my thoughtlessness
in tandem with my heartbeats.

it’s simple.
i fall into you and you fall away.
the world goes on.

i’m only lonely when i’m losing, r.k. (via dallisons)

13 Thursday Mar 2014

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If the boy who draws

let’s you look over his shoulder.

If the poet

smiles

and shows you her words.

If the girl who sings for the shower only,

hums a song

in front of you.

Know that you’re no longer a person

but the air

and dust

that fills their lungs.

When the world perishes,

and all things cease to exist,

you’ll remain inside an ink stain,

a paint brush,

a song.

— Alaska Gold