Sanguine Thoughts

Write me a symphony of words, scrawled across torn yellowed parchment. Make it a love song, that my heart can beat with. Burn something beautiful into my cynical mind. Leave me wanting to burrow into your arms and touch your lips, flutters from my fingertips. Pen your thoughts across my soul, bury them deep within me. Dip me into the false truth of your realistic illusions. I want to fall in love, not with a person, that’s too risky, with your words. Give me something timeless, that sinks into me, something I’ll never forget. Make me believe in true love, the true love of graceful letters in black and white.

Emphasis

secretedsins:

Emphasis is
that or this is
truer, meatier
than the rest is.
Here is truth
that’s truer than true —
I could use you.
I could use you.
I could use you.

(via pseud0nymph)

Sanguine Thoughts: Scent

heyweirdgirl:

I’ve laced this scent with my secrets.
I’ve whispered my dreams into it.
I’ve ground deep into it, my fears, my nightmares.

My favorite poison. My most beloved poetry.
My rage. My pride. My ghosts. My kisses.

Do you know it, or have you misread it all along?
Do you regret this scent, my sweet prince?
Is it insufferable?
Hate it.

So many days, and long, endless nights. I see now. You could never comprehend. Never understand who I am.. Who I was… Who I wanted to be. Like my scent you know so well, a red unmarked bottle… That’s how you see me. Unmarked, unreachable. Not once did you really grasp the sweet stench of lilac and honeysuckle. Not once did you look past what you wanted me to be. Why would I expect anything more? Why did I believe for so long that you would change… That you would try to discover who I really was instead of who you thought I was supposed to be.

I just want to take this time, on this day to say thank you to everyone who has or is serving our country. All those great men and women out there deserve appreciation for what the do/have done for us all.

The picture above is of a family member. I am so proud of him. Thank you.

Thank you all.

Happy Memorial Day.

Pick up the nearest book to you - Turn to page 45 - The first sentence describes your current sex life.

pseud0nymph:

aquietjoy:

I lack words to express the full extent, or the earnest abandon of his persuasion.

The Fall of the House of Usher- Poe

“When you pass Barley’s farm, say hi to Ravenpaw for me.”

Warriors: Firestar’s Quest (Super Edition) - Erin Hunter

What was going on?

All Just Glass - Amelia Atwater-Rhodes.

(Source: nykyos)

Anonymous asked: Favorite writing blogs?

All amazing.

Messages To The Moon: Romiet

messagestothemoon:

He was a poem too many people left unread.
A song stuck on repeat in an empty bar
In the middle of nowhere Texas.
A message in a bottle
That never made it to the safety of
Beach bathed hands.

She was an epic movie in a foreign tongue
When the audience was too busy
Making out in the back row.
An art gallery in an Indian alleyway
Tucked in a corner behind the shop
Where women were sold.
A songbird that made it to the highest branch
But was never heard from the shadowed ground.

They were a story written by a quill
Ripped from an eagle’s flight.
A page torn from the spine of time
Crumpled in the hands of men.

They were your favourite record
Your only band
The silence between breaths
The life before death
A paintbrush on the brink of colour
A photographer at the edge of his lens
A writer at the end of her pen.

They were the stars and sin and souls aligned.
And everything we forgot to find.

Sanguine Thoughts: Read

heyweirdgirl:

I pulled out the book today. That one. You know the one, the one you’ve read so many times that the pages are frayed and the spine is cracked and crumbling. I run a finger across those worn leafs, finding a place in the middle and the pages part like an expecting lover, eager for me to take in it’s words. The black and white print stares up at me, those lines I know so well I could recite them by heart, for it is my heart they are printed on now, in black and white, scrawling across my soul, forever burned into me like a scalding brand. The scent hits me like a too familiar perfume, musty and intoxicating. I bring the pages to my nose, inhaling that smell I love so much. It’s like a drug, addicting and powerful. Sometimes I find myself wondering if the author knows how much those little words mean to some people, how much time I spend caressing and adoring the piece of themselves, their creativity, that they have set out into the world. Like releasing something out onto the wind and hoping someone will catch it and cradle it and love it as much as you do.

So here I go again, turning to page one, curling up on the end of the sofa with a glass of tea and a pack of cigarettes, this wonderful book lay open in my lap, and as I’ve done so many times before I turned my gaze down to the text and drank deep from the bottomless well of artistic brilliance.

“THE SANTA ANAS blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves…”

AQuietJoy: Re: Who Writes ...

flawsstitchedwithgoodintentions:

Women who write are sexy too.

There, I said it. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Women. who write. are sexy. Not in the way that you would call a stripper sexy because of the way you think about how they might let you penetrate them. No, they are sexy because there’s something about the way women coax ink out of a pen with their every stroke that makes you wonder how they might coax ink out of you. The manner in which they labor over every line on a page makes you want them to labor over every inch of you.

Strippers can get a rise out of you, and depending on the nature of the words, an authoress can too. But, it’s a different kind of rise, something less carnal and more cerebrally stimulating. The impression is lasting, much like the words they write, leaving you to ponder them for hours or even days after the first contact. The stripper might get you to throw your money at her; but, the authoress…she gets you to throw your mind at her, a mind that contemplates more than the spaces between words.

Women who write are sexy too.

I’m not speaking of the ones who wrote a couple (hundred) angry poems at the boy who stood her up on her prom night. I’m sure that that woman could be sexy too; but, she doesn’t hold a candle to her class of allure. She can write a poem about it.

I’m speaking of the woman who would pen out their own diatribe for the sake of exercise. I’m speaking of the women that use their words to speak in a world where their bodies would work so much faster. The woman that would challenge convention. That fierceness, that defiance is titillating and tantalizing. That fierceness is vitality.

Women who write are unrelenting. They aren’t prisoners of the stigma attached to their gender, and if you try to pigeonhole them to that, they’ll stab you with a pen and use your blood to explain exactly why they don’t fit into that frame. They’ll do it with a smile. And you imagine that they unleash that kind of fervor on your flesh in the same way you imagine a stripper would grind on your flesh. The thought sends tingles up your spine that dance around inside your skull. You’re rigid.

You couldn’t give a damn about what they look like; you only care about her pen strokes.

You just want her to be stroking yours.

-A sexy male writer

This is awesome. I love it.

Sanguine Thoughts: A weird girl..gets Inspired

heyweirdgirl:

“A story isn’t a charcoal sketch, where every stroke lies on the surface to be seen. It’s an oil painting, filled with layers that the author must uncover so carefully to show its beauty.”

-Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Recently I’ve been reading, and reading, and reading. The levels of talent out there are wide. But in the process I ran across something that really caused my mind to churn. One small piece of writing, I can’t even recall what now, like a fleeting dream, one that the moment you wake it’s just beyond your reach and will likely never return to you again. But I do now understand the inspiration that I gained from it.

Writers are very much like a sub-species of the human race. We can understand one another in a way that the ‘normal’ population will never grasp. We all share a deep-seeded yearning for creation and manipulation of the written word that can surpass even our basic survival instincts for sleep, sustenance, and social connection.

People without this need will always believe us to be mad, the oddities of our behavior will forever baffle them. But even in being cast out of the social circles that all people struggle most of their adolescence to fit into, we still refuse to be dissuaded from tossing our thoughts and imaginative ideas into the void of pen and text. Leaving ourselves open to criticism and ridicule (or, by some miracle, praise,) for the reason that we simply… must.

It’s within our blood, swimming in our veins, coursing through our souls. Crying out, screaming to gain absolute control. And we will always surrender, cracking our knuckles over a worn keyboard and continue, over and over again to pour our very selves out onto the page. We give everything to it, sacrifice all for that one moment of creative expression. We struggle to gain experience and eloquence, to become better at something that could sometimes I suppose give us fortune and fame, but will most often only leave us struggling our entire lives to keep our relationships and parental acceptance in tact.

heyweirdgirl:

“I hate you.” He spat.

“I hate you!” Was all she could reply.

Like children, fighting over a game,

They didn’t mean it,

Not a word,

But they couldn’t help it.

They were falling apart,

their love lost somewhere in the fragments.

“Please don’t do this.”

Burning, all consuming.

“I’m sorry.”

Scorched. Black. Ashes.

Only ashes now.

There was nothing left

inside of her.

The broken promises,

the easy lies,

had burned everything away.

Her heart was the toy,

and love was the game.

She had no hand left to play.

No ace up her sleave,

no cards left to deal.

“It’s over.” She said.

The door slammed behind him,

“It’s over.” She breathed.

And she went to kiss goodnight,

the last little pieces of her heart.

There is a difference

pseud0nymph:

aquietjoy:

between thinking you love someone

after you just met them

and actually knowing

who they are

and loving them anyway

This is the truest thing I have ever read.

I agree.