Finding my Reasons

Recording my everyday findings in the form of poetry.

You’re just the sweetest thang


Never thinking
Never pausing
Always moving
Always devouring
You were a frightening, perfect, beautiful monster
that would bare its teeth at the weak.

Your scales would shimmer in the light
but you would shed once in the dark.

Your wings would help you fly higher,
but they would batter every object in their way

Your fangs would help you tear into the juiciest carcass
but they wouldn’t falter to pierce the still-living

I wanted to become you.

Always moving.
Always devouring.


I think in stories,
speak in poems,
and dream in the most beautiful of songs.

—Elaine Marie

(via lzlabseesu)

The Noise in my Head, the Sound in our Hearts

Hum softly and mutter meekly,
We don’t need the sound.

We have more than enough noise
when our syncopated heart beats pound.

The sun doesn’t stream, it sings
The air isn’t still, it’s jiving.
The earth doesn’t stop and wait for us.
No, the earth is thriving.

Exam week

Up before daylight
Stomach eroding from black tar coffee
Eyes collapsing- brief dreams of alternate universes
drawing me away 
The quiet is ringing in my ears. 
Insanity approaches

(Source: allofthesevoices)

“Men weren’t really the enemy - they were fellow victims suffering from an outmoded masculine mystique that made them feel unnecessarily inadequate when there were no bears to kill”

—   Friedan, B. 1963. The Feminine Mystique

This isn’t it

I don’t think you realize that when I glare at you for singing whatever simple melody is stuck in your head, it’s not because I’m irritated. It’s because you make my heart beat faster whenever I even hear your voice which makes me panic and the first thing I think of is to make a strange face and that angry face is always the easiest one to do. I’m sorry, you’re just so beautiful that I want to kiss your neck and squeeze you tight but I can’t because you’re too far away and your freshman girlfriend is standing next to us smacking her bubblegum.

The worst thing about it is that I know he would like me if I could just act like myself.

Fallen stars don’t know of my grief.
My sparkle is a song unsung,
My glow has faded with the mornings

“If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.”

—   Edgar Allan Poe  (via forebidden)

(Source: letteratura-litterature, via le-pinard)

You make my heart go 246


Words can’t describe
these throbbing frustrations
and random spurts of attraction.
The moments when
just glancing at you makes my blood boil
versus the moments when
just gazing at you makes me want
to tear my heart out and feed it to you on a platter.