the candle at the end of the telescope

i am not a classroom type of person. if i wasn’t on course to graduate next fall i’d want to drop out. it sounds stupid but i think a lot of our best years are wasted on making sure we’ll survive the worst years. so what the hells the point. there’s moments where i wish my day job is to go fishing in the marina, catch nothing but trumpets, and sell them for meatball subs. by night i’d want to live on music and learn from my cat how to be a better freeloader. i want to be a bandaid. if people cry i want to teach their tears to smell like muffins. i want to dare the eyes of many to conjure me umbrella for the hailstorm.

Maybe our vastly inhuman need..

is things to apply god characteristics human to human 

:)

kneepits:

maybe god is our human need to apply human characteristics to vastly inhuman things.

last part of an essay answering a question my words are beneath

Is this essay as sure and lucid an answer to life as it set out to be? To be honest, it is about as substantial in its leaps and efforts at answering as it would be if it were carved on a shore. A shore unchanged in its nonchalant, millennial brushing of waves for generations of the same asked questions to drift away and revisit themselves in their slightly altered tongues.

I really do not care about school anymore. Please give me a B.

God is not a fan of Twilight

Isaiah 1:14 


14 Your New Moon festivals and your appointed feasts
my soul hates.
They have become a burden to me;
I am weary of bearing them.

Fathom

every star is a compass to her

she holds her favorite one on her forehead

and lies in a ring of clovers by the windmill

she is warmed by a blanket

made of her next lover’s dreams

and sleeps in her propensity

for what points in all directions

you were a snowflake in her belly

and even as a crystal

you had her features

Mahatma Gandhi walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him rather frail and, with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath. This made him…
…a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.

Letter to My 7th Grade Self

whaaat?? no way. incredible poem

phoenixpoet:

Ditch the shy act.

Wear a skirt.

Dye your hair in every color of the rainbow-tinted galaxy.

You’ve always been a ball of light bursting at the seams

So why stop reflecting the future now?

Be a time capsule full of deferred dreams

Breathe life back into them until they break the dawn.

Sing out-

God’ll still love you, even if you crack,

so let your voice shatter into a million little pieces

then write a book about it.

At least this time around, you’ll give ‘em something to believe in.

Swallow your pride-

do the English homework

Trust me, it’ll pay off later,

Especially the stuff about the boring old poets.

Yes, Shakespeare is dead

But in 5 years you’ll be vying for the chance to revive his spirit on your tongue,

No Ouija board needed,

just projection, but it’ll come.

Love like no one’s watching.

Better yet,

love like God is watching from a corner with popcorn in hand.

You’re life’s better than a movie;

you’re just too young to understand the subtext.

Subtract the moments spent stressing and breathe.

Give mom the extra air through exhalations

and cushion her wings when she falls.

Love dad,

with all his cracks and crevices.

Learn to speak Cutty.

carve Sark teeth into reparations.

Learn the serenity prayer in advance.

Acquait the pounding on the walls

as your first experience with hip-hop,

and not a dance with the devil.

Beat-box a rhythm in the key of life over it,

call this poetry.

Call this life a stage.

Call this world

your audience.

Call static

dissension.

Call off buttons

a release.

Mute buttons

insecurity.

Call yourself

a Technicolor angel

disco balls for eyes

ghettoblasters for heartbeats

Call your mistakes

B-sides.

Call suburban streets

your playground.

Chalk outlines

The coloring books for your rendezvous with rebellion

Dance until their borders realign themselves around your shadow

and make the canvas your dancefloor

Call this beautiful

Call your voice

a paint can

Your passion-

Vandalism

Your lovers-

Victims

Your tears-

Tags

Your heart-

sacred

Your past-

mosaic

Your future-

unwritten

Your present-

just the beginning.

prelude to a prayer

it didn’t take knowing you
to tell you I was right there with you
you might want to suspend
yourself for this:
tears are beautiful
and you know your story
better than I do
so do not hide those tears
wipe them with seeds if you must
I will even let you
throw them in the shade
of the person who wasn’t there for me
don’t worry
I am now that person
my shade opens doors
that will take you to open arms
my blood will open fire on your heart
until we get so bright
the fireflies will stop
to get a glimpse of us
once every few moments

1.30

i know this girl and i’m better for it. follow her
phoenixpoet:

What inspires me?
Waking up each morning to
an unwritten life.