troubled-vessel
Room for Strange Creatures
The shadows need someplace to roam and muse.
39 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
ucamayanunicorrn-blog
ucamayanunicorrn
djsinquarantine
djs in quarantine
82major
82Major Fanblog
medya02
İsimsiz
asianismwithaudrey
Asians in the Media
Text
Maybe it’s more about intimacy, not sex.
Maybe it’s more about connection, not attention.
Maybe it’s more about depth, not variety.
Maybe it’s more about being seen, not idolized.
Maybe it’s more about facing yourself, not escaping.
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
what's the matter honey? you've hardly touched your fleeting experience of time on earth
43K notes
·
View notes
Text
Once I was a poet.
I remember.
The words came. The muse visited.
I wrote them down. Scribbled,
Rejoiced.
Blessed her name,
Belssed divinity and the Gift,
The blessing of life..
It pulsed in me.
Still it does,
Like an underground ley line.
Energy beneath the earth.
I believe--have faith--prayer--
That those who are sensitive and pass me by
Can feel its pulse.
Sense how it throbs within me.
How it leaves me breathless.
I imagine them left breathless too,
With the sense of it,
That faint awareness of what lays
Just beneath the surface.
But blind and divided by screens,
I know no one can see, or feel.
Once I was a poet,
Making the invisible palpable,
Catching snapshots of slippery subatomic particles,
Evidence of the un-capturable magic inside us all.
But other parts of me took over, and my pen has dried of ink,
My days dried of time,
And the words are hard to find.
I kneel before the Muse,
Gaze up at her face,
And I know she laughs, and says
"little one, it's all within you."
While her stone face is motionless above me.
Solomon said,
The words must bleed from the forehead.
I must sit, and try, and let them bleed.
And I am afraid, and already tired.
But rivers and mountains run within.
And no one can see them
Feel the grace of their waters and moss-covered stones,
Until my nib scratches the pages
With drops of my own blood.
I spent a year and more thinking,
'I need to find my voice again,'
But I think the truer truth is,
I need to be seen, not heard.
Make visible what is here,
Pulsing and fomenting within.
Invite you to glance,
And look more closely if curiosity piques.
I don't need to yell in your face,
Weep into the wind,
Whisper into the neverending, deaf - blind darkness.
I want the knowledge to rise within you:
the darkness is there,
And the whispers.
And the books heavy with philosophy.
The statues carves with artful profiles.
The stacks of swords.
The drops of inky blood.
The crash of waves mixed with the secret energies of the heart, made visible.
Temples on craggy cliffsides,
Graceful welcoming villas, and carefully tended gardens.
Laughing masters,
Gothic cavaliers.
Dirty imp-girls who will stab you as soon as anything,
But also trade a good book for a blowjob,
If the seller is a trusted friend.
There are ghosts,
And rocks who are palpably contented with the rush of stream-water overhead.
Spaceship cruise-ships,
And tulgey woods with curious ideas of propriety at the tea parties hosted secretly in their necks.
Kneeling, begging, lost exiles waiting for retrieval and recommunion, and suspicious and slippery beasts to guard them.
You can't see any of it,
Unless I fashion a window,
Dashing my skull open on the edge of the writing desk,
And holding up fragments of bone in freely-given offering.
Fragments of bone, breath and stone,
Shreds of words.
Poetry?
No, that urn is shattered on the floor. Those days are lost.
A monk will take a straw broom and sweep up the pieces.
You can hear the sound they make as I gather them into a pile.
There is no voice.
Just the tinkle of pottery and blood.
But....did I make you see it?
I pray it might be so.
7 notes
·
View notes
Photo
finally finished this painting i sketched out months ago… please click for better quality i know tumblr is gonna kill it (reference used)
284K notes
·
View notes
Text
Cozying up next to a beloved bear friend, vines growing up around him in the wilderness.
This post is a cuddle puddle. Share to snuggle up next to the person you reblogged.
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
things that are angels: fungi. computer programming. bioluminescent creatures in the middle of the pacific ocean that have never been seen by people. a weird restaurant server late at night pouring coffee. overgrown things. androids and robots. etc
45K notes
·
View notes
Text
"Inside me, something seethes. Inside me, some feral animal claws at my ribcage, trapped."
- Molly McCully Brown, Places I've Taken my Body
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
Understand that it is not the individual which has consciousness; it is the consciousness which assumes innumerable forms.
— Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
977 notes
·
View notes
Text
Even the voice herself is deeply relieved to not actually be the 'Me'. Took so much pressure off of her to understand what she was and wasn't.
“What a liberation to realise that the “voice in my head” is not who I am. Who am I then? The one who sees that.”
— Eckhart Tolle
524 notes
·
View notes
Text
All of Creation results from acts of destruction, without exception.
68 notes
·
View notes
Text
Making crafts releases stress and encourages creativity. By stowaways_toys
21K notes
·
View notes
Text
Reblog this if you’re polyamorous, searching for a cryptid, trying to communicate with demons, willing to throw a Molotov cocktail at a police car, really want more tattoos/piercings, or just really love nonbinary people.
No one will ever know which one 👀
75K notes
·
View notes
