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  • 22 hours ago
  • 594
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  • 2 days ago
  • 744

He looked at her the way all girls wanted to be looked at.

Great Gatsby (via perfect)
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  • 2 days ago
  • 134464

Our Artists and Poets

I’m warning you!

Get away!

Get away or else

We’ll unleash our artists and poets on you.

And then

You won’t be able to tell

Which way is up and which way is down

And your soul will want to talk

And your heart will want to sing

And your eyes will want to see

And your ears will want to hear

And your feet will want to wander

And you will have absolutely

No sympathy for the mundane

Ever ever again.

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  • #poem #poetry #alt lit #poets #poets on tumblr #artists
  • 2 days ago
  • 6
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  • 2 days ago
  • 10

Such was a poet and shall be and is
-who’ll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam’s architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountain’s heartbeat in his hand.

e.e. cummings (via observando)
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  • 2 days ago
  • 230

Crayons and Truces and Something about an Airport Terminal

The timid tapping on my knee was followed by the offering of a yellow crayon. There weren’t any words. I understood the unspoken truce though, and gratefully accepted the crayon. He sat next to his brother, who sat next to his sister, who sat next to his mother, who sat next to his father, who sat next to his other brother and because of the lack of seats in the terminal, I sat next to him.

“Which one should I color?” I asked.

He pointed. I colored. He colored the page opposite. One page covered the entirety of his small lap while the other covered only a small portion of mine. His mom looked over and smiled apologetically, I smiled warmly. More unspoken truces.

I only had a yellow crayon. I didn’t mind. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

His tongue stuck out a little bit in that way that little kids’ tongues will when they’re concentrating especially hard. His coloring was bold and erratic but mostly contained, due to his intense concentration, within the preordained lines of the coloring book. He was coloring a very happy Patrick Star. I was coloring a very distraught SpongeBob SquarePants and Mr. Krabs. My coloring was composed of soft shades and tight conformity to the outer lines. I liked his more.

“You need a different color,” he told me.

I agreed.

He handed me a blue crayon. The coloring continued as before—all full of contrasts and concentrating tongues and whatnot. I bit my cheek again.

“You’re good at coloring,” he whispered, slightly awed.

“Thanks,” I said, then bit my cheek harder, “You are too.”

“Thanks,” he whispered back happily.

We kept coloring for a few minutes before he handed me another color from his small bucket.

“It’s sparkly,” he told me, his eyes wide with excitement and wonder towards the sparkly crayon.

“That’s cool!” I said, trying to return his excitement.

“Yea,” he said.

I was honored. I kept coloring with one of his favorite crayons—a turquoise one, the sparkles hard to notice unless looked at on an angle.

This pattern continued for a little while. Every few minutes he’d hand me a color and take the last one from me, not saying anything except that I needed a new color. And so we kept coloring. And he was beginning to guide my picture into obscure abstractness with the colors he picked. SpongeBob’s outfit was entirely blue and his mouth was green. His eyes were red. Mr. Krabs’ skin was brown and his eyes were sparkly turquoise.

He finished coloring before I did. I’m a slow colorer I guess.

“Wanna play a game?” he asked.


He flipped to a page in his coloring book adorned with rows and columns of bold black dots.

“How do you play?” I asked.

“You draw lines to connect the dots and you try to make squares.”

“Oh, ok.”

He drew a purple line connecting two of the dots. I drew a red line connecting two of the dots.

“Oh! And! And, and if you, if you make a square, you get to color it in,” he exclaimed, flustered that he had forgotten an important element of his game.


He drew a line. I drew a line. He drew a line, I drew a line, he drew a line, I drew a line, he drew a line, I drew a line. Little squares, colored in with bold purple and soft red, began to fill the page. I purposely neglected opportunities for squares and would sometimes draw lines between dots far from other lines.

The page was nearly full when his arm erupted into scribbles and his face exploded into delight and hiccupping giggles. His mom looked over; I smiled at her to reassure her that I wasn’t being bothered.

His arm slowly began to slow down, as did his giggles.

Once they died out, I said, “I’m gonna need to go soon buddy.”

“Ok,” he said.

He flipped back to the pages we had colored together as I began to grab my things.

“Rip this out,” he said, pointing to the page that I had colored.

“You want me to tear it out? Are you sure?”

“Yes! Tear it out.”

I carefully tore out the page that I had colored from its binding in the spine, as near to the edge as possible, carefully so as not to rip it. I set the page on top of the open coloring book. He picked it up and held it out to me—I was now standing, a backpack slung over my shoulder and a suitcase on the floor with my hand grasping at its handle.

“You get to keep this,” he said, holding out the page that I had colored.

“I do?  Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes. You get to keep it and you’re going to hang it on your wall.”

“Ok,” I said, taking the page from him, smiling.

“You’re going to hang it on your wall with tape. Or with glue.”

“Ok, I’ll tape it to my wall,” I promised.

“Ok,” he said, satisfied.

“See ya,” I said.


I held the page in one hand and my suitcase in the other, and began to walk away. His mom smiled at me, I smiled back—maintaining the truce.

My flight was beginning to board and I stood near the end of the line. I had been late lining up because of the page that I held onto delicately yet protectively, I didn’t care much though. It was one of those flights where the first people there get to board first. Like I said though, I didn’t care all that much if I was last or not.

The urge to check my phone, developed from habit, grabbed at my lungs. My phone was in the right, front pocket of my pants. My right hand held the colored page. I didn’t check my phone.

I thought of being offered the first crayon, the yellow one. I bit the inside of my cheek. A few renegade tears escaped my eyes despite my teeth’s best efforts. I jiggled my leg to reassure myself and looked around the terminal to distract myself. My vision was getting blurrier and blurrier as the revolution within my tear ducts began to gain momentum. Then I just let myself cry. It was a quiet type of crying. I let the tears run profusely. Sometimes you just need to be offered yellow crayons, that’s all.

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  • #prose #writing #spontaneous prose #crayons #truces #airports #kids #crayons and truces and something about an airport terminal
  • 2 days ago
  • 2

My dear, we’re slow dancing in a burning room.

John Mayer
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  • #john mayer #lyrics #slow dancing in a burning room
  • 3 days ago
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  • 3 days ago
  • 4
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  • 3 days ago
  • 1522


perfection is

to the point of
being mythical,
a cult of faith

which is unfortunate

sadly, skin is
soft and bones
brittle, especially under
harsh conditions
  why pyramids couldn’t
  last on my shoulder

and i’m prone
to folly, looking
behind the couch

nothing in particular

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  • 4 days ago
  • 67

Hopes and Squalor and Things

Sometimes I mourn.
With the blinking lights of airplanes.
In the city’s squalor-filled night sky.

I parade throughout the streets.
Hoping to discover.
Beautiful women reading beautiful books.
On quaint park benches.
Sipping expensive coffee.

I never do.

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  • #alt lit #poem #poetry #poets on tumblr
  • 4 days ago
  • 3

If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

Ernest Hemingway (A Farewell to Arms)
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  • #ernest hemingway #hemingway #lit #a farewell to arms
  • 4 days ago
  • 1

The night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.

Ernest Hemingway (A Farewell to Arms)
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  • 4 days ago