At night I dream of you in hysteria,
In madness, and in the blight of not knowing
How the rivers fail to reach the seas.
At night I dream as if you were wine
I drink in the day as I go on moseying -
Drunken and elated as if you are the
Only thing I know, the only thing that has
Been…
A weeping on your shirt
Has summoned silence
From mills and hills;
Watch where I jump
Trespassed windows
Creaking beds of broken
My skin tarnishes
The mornings darken
Let me squish
The pulp of your heart
In between my hands;
This is my ballad
Don’t Walk Your Lady Down Skid Row.
A Typical Evening.
Hundreds of hands
Grabbing at me,
Tearing me limb by limb.
But it’s silent.
No screams,
Just a distant hum.
Pain, they called it.
You can’t escape it.
Insanity, they called it.
Hundreds of hands
Grabbing at me,
Tearing me limb by limb.
But it’s silent.
No screams.
Just a distant hum
- Grace C.
(via raz-zok)
the darkness was desperate,
buried in my heart were dreams
and my hands tried to reach them,
as my fingers touched its light
the fading lights slowly fell, I sunk deeper;
there was so much fault in the stars
Allan Kirk | Canal Venice | watercolor | 2011
(via the-memory-felt-so-real)
(via curmudegon)
(Source: milenuts, via dear-emilie)
What is the Sea,
Without the ripping waves,
That torrential fury,
The cataclysm
Which makes the Sea whole?
Strip the Sea of its current,
And you’ll have a drowning pool
Of blank, spineless quintessence.
One day, I was sitting in Art class, And the idea of making a secong blog that focuses on artwork and poetry sparked in my mind. I took that spark and made a flame.
