Reblogged from amai-tea
DecorusMens
"A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it begins to live that day." - Emily Dickinson
Poetry seems to be the secret yet steady flow in our veins that some of us may form into words, others merely retain as a silent song in their heads. It’s this whispering in your ear, constantly humming inside your chest until you unleash it out of your mind. Like a child plucking your clothes until you take it’s hand and move forward. The one thing that might keep myself awake, withholding sleep until it found it’s way down onto paper.
Poetry as a valve, trigger, tower of strength, proof of love, sign of attachment or devotion and vital mouthpiece.
“Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess and a criminal. Does that answer your question?
Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.”
(Source: buffys, via tasogareban)
Poetry to me is like a gap that’s always waiting to be filled. But not a bad gap, a good one. And one that makes itself known in the darkest times. It draws the shades, makes the room dark, makes me lie down in bed and think. It is a route that allows me to communicate à la fois de mes langues, and thus…frees me.
(Source: buddhacoffee, via sav3mys0ul)
