June Jordan, from “Haruko: Love Poems,” originally published c. July 1993

I am nothing but words, / just a shape / of dreams or night. / I tremble.

Anne Carson, from Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides; “Herakles” (via luthienne)

“I am half afraid to hope for what I long for.”

— Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Austin Dickinson wr. c. August 1851 (via violentwavesofemotion)

“Someone like me doesn’t escape.”

— Louise Glück, from The Complete Poems of L. G.: 1962-2012; “Thrush,”

“I wish you were here — or I were there — or something — I don’t know what —”

— Georgia O’Keeffe, from a letter to Alfred Stieglitz c. December 1919 (via violentwavesofemotion)

Paul Valéry, tr. by Hilary Corke, from “The Angel,” written c. March 1922

what makes him a hero? i. he is always front and centre, the first to take a hit, the first to take a stand, no matter how high the risk, how high the cost. he protects everyone, even those that have done nothing to deserve it, even those that have done everything not to. ii. he fights for what is good, what is right, he makes it his cause; he won’t stop fighting until there is no fight left. he doesn’t always win, but when he does, he hardly lets himself feel the victory – there are so many more battles left to fight. iii. he lets his mistakes weigh down on him, until he no longer stands tall, until he stops feeling like a hero at all. he holds his losses in his heart and they eat him up inside, like maggots; his heart a forgotten graveyard on a battlefield. iv. he would lay down his life (again, and again), if it would save even one other life. his life means nothing to him if he can’t save the people he cares about (after all, what’s he worth anyway). when heroes are a dime a dozen, he feels like just another soldier, just another life to trade.

he would sooner die than call himself a hero (j.n.)

what if we die tonight? wrapped by the stars on a beautiful symphony. the ocean would cry and take our bodies off shore so we could finally meet the deathless end.

j.t // starry night (via katefulleir)

You pulled me out of the darkness, you held my hand throughout it but you threw me so far into the light, so far, our hands have slipped apart.

Agoldenangel (via xmendarkphoenix)

At the end of my rope I testify to silence. Don’t say I’m not grateful. Most will have only one death. I will have two.

Margaret Atwood, from Half-Hanged Mary in “Morning In The Burned House” (via xmendarkphoenix)

That time I thought I could not go any closer to grief without dying I went closer and I did not die.

Mary Oliver, from Heavy in “Thirst: Poems by Mary Oliver” (via xmendarkphoenix)

what is your death but an old belonging,

Anne Sexton, from Sylvia’s Death in “The Complete Poems Of Anne Sexton” (via xmendarkphoenix)

it feels right, loving him like it’s something your soul acknowledged long ago and even though you are forced to wait to tell him you know that when he comes back to you the universe will be softer just because he’s in your arms  and the wait just makes your heart belong to him even more and a day where his voice doesn’t echo in your mind is one not lived and he’s saved you  and shaped you and you, you, yearn to enshrine him in the constellations   because this love is something like devotion, like absolution

Unfinished Stories #24 by Abby S (via xmendarkphoenix)

he was like Apollo, a shining sun, a glowing edifice to all that I desired and I was his Icarus and how I fell oh, how I fell

“i would die again to see that face” C.E.F. (via xmendarkphoenix)

Despite my singed feathers and this tattered scroll I haul around, I’m not an angel. I’m only a shadow,

Margaret Atwood, from Enough Of These Discouragements in “The Door” (via xmendarkphoenix)

Of all the colors the Universe has created my favorite shade of blue is that of your eyes.

C. Marquez (via xmendarkphoenix)

I whisper and shout at the universe. I beg, plead, and demand that we get another chance, that we meet again, and that this time we both stay.

C. Marquez (via xmendarkphoenix)