#poetryriot

decaymp3:

decaymp3:

im so srs humans were made for art and friend and food and beddy bye. i mean this

and help each other. humans were made for help each other

random-xpressions:

What if there existed no other language on earth except something deeply symbolic: a handshake, a hug, a kiss. The sheer capacity of the human body to express by itself, be it through the eyes or by the hands is simply amazing. A touch could be more healing than any other medicine discovered till date. And don’t ask me what wonders those lips could do if they were to just widen a bit with a hearty smile, enough to bring all the heavenly bliss. Get your body involved, tongue is not the crown of expression, it’s merely a medium resorted in the last phase. Otherwise, your entire being is more than enough to express beautifully by itself - this body, in which you reside, is the perfect symbolic epitome of what your soul is truly made of…

Random Xpressions

liberalsarecool:

Leave reproductive decisions up to individuals.

jezifster:

Weed should be free in fact you should get paid for smoking it

theleakypen:

punkrorschach:

thesaltofcarthage:

depsidase:

my name is elephant
I don’t fit the rhyme scheme
I drink the soup
It’s not like you’re going to stop me

my name is ‘Phant

i do not fit

the poem scheme

i will omit

but i don’t care

and nor should you

unstoppably,

i drink the soup

I’m ollyfant

with legs like trees

and any time

I dam well plees

Thro window smalle

as jeweler’s loupe

I reach insyde

I drink the soupe

losinghopeart:

confessions

jussamon:

ancientdaydreams:

Imagine being so ashamed of your history you outlaw it from being taught

Their a Bunch of Cowards.

“you were my first love and you always will be. i can’t say i don’t miss you but i cannot keep you here with me forever. the memory of the person you used to be is slowly fading and i’m starting to forget what it felt like to love you. what it felt like being loved by you. i see you with her and i resent you. i’m scared that my memories of you as my first love will be overshadowed by the destruction you caused in the end.”

— s.c. (accepting change)

the sun danced on Ector street

warming each home and those who roamed

I was only a visitor at the time,

life had wings and flowed with each breeze,

every hope and dream breathed from the concrete — the roots of your home

sun rays gleamed from and at you all at once

we couldn’t see past each beam

blinded by light or love

and we shared it unequally.

we rise and fall like each passing day,

we failed to last our eternity

or perhaps we have just begun—

the sun still dances on Ector street

maybe that is us.

we would talk about the rain

and wish it would pour on us for days

hope for long trips to sights

we’ve never seen before.

letting things slip,

the mind unravels what once was

right in front of us

but which now lays behind

with you beneath to only wish

on the possibility

of our dreams

being alive,

wherever you reside.

open wounds laid on the bed

safe for them to take their meds

open wounds make people cringe

too gruesome for them to understand

open wounds from a pen

bleed red

from delirious wolves who devoured the flesh 

open wounds from your own head

written for all to live and say aloud instead

follow the shadows of the leafless trees

each route a different one

where a new life has sprung.

even in conditions of weariness

the shadows lead to

a place for you

to confide or to lose

everything you ever knew 

before stepping foot

in a path never took

you wander through the waves

but your body lays buried

and your philosophy decays

each day you attempt to salvage our moments

where our lips met or cursed

where our hands gripped or stayed loose

and though the past is over and done with

you’ve created waves to crash through my brain

where these moments leak to my mind

giving your philosophy new life

and you remain through the salvaged kisses and moments

until i join you for what is left of our voyage

day breaks into new

for some to fly or fall;

you watch them scatter around trying to find their place in

fields of eight foot sunflowers or treacherous minefields

with their teeth out for the world to see they are happy

or expressionless to keep trespassers away;

you witness the madness in a new day

watching hope play mind games of her own

where sunrise is an imposter for change, and merely a chance for all

either to fly or to fall.