Mad-Poets

“I live in madness.” She tells him.

He smiles,

“And your madness is my only reality.”

—  Lukas W. // Forgotten Words #131 // “Your madness, my reality.”

I just want to meet a girl who will treat me how they would want to be treated. I want to read books with you while we’re sitting at the table drinking coffee, I want reassurance that you aren’t going anywhere, I want to watch sunsets with you because I’m a sucker for those. I want deep conversations at unreasonable times and when my depression takes over I want to know that I can confide in you and that you’ll always take me seriously. I want random moments where we are laughing and giggling while cooking together, I want to chase you around the house all because you ate the last slice of pizza. Whenever we make love I want it to mean something (every single time) because not only am I giving myself to you but I’m completely allowing myself to be vulnerable at your side.

Most of all I want to be loved endlessly as well as doing the same. Spending the rest of my life with the person I vow to never give up on.

Poet as cannonball. Poet as betrayal, betrayed. Poet as love, verb and noun. Poet as unbridled. Poet as three slashed tires. Poet as five angry voicemails. Poet as desperation. Poet as I-love-you-
but.

Poet as entropy. Poet as sledgehammer. Poet as target and weapon. Poet as overflowing toilet. Poet as question and answer. Poet as echoed tears in an empty house.

Poet as giver. Poet as dichotomy. Poet as perennial mess. Poet as burned-at-own-stake. Poet as
canvas and brush. Poet as borderland.

Poet as slurred speech. Poet as fear embodied. Poet as tying-up-loose-ends. Poet as fire. Poet as
fire. Poet as fire.

Poet as binge. Poet as paper cut. Poet as playing God. Poet as recurring nightmare. Poet as
churning stomach.  Poet as rancid love.

Poet as sepia tone. Poet as epiphany. Poet as we’re-all-mad-here. Poet as crossed-out lines. Poet as proliferation. Poet as breaking out full speed.

Poet as animal, vegetable, mineral. Poet as person, place, thing. Poet as anthropologist, archaeologist. Poet as beginning, middle, end. Poet as resurrection.

Poet as karma. Poet as new world. Poet as complement, not compliment. Poet as quilter. Poet as vigilante. Poet as lifeboat. Poet as truth. Poet as truth.

—  Ars Poetica, Irene Vazquez

Has anyone talked about Wirt’s name?

(Both of the brothers’ names, actually –Gregory has the sense of watchful or alert. Greg is often the more alert of the two brothers to the outside environment, while Wirt is fairly self-absorbed. Gregory also sounds like gregarious –friendly and engaging.)

Wirt, according to a quick Google search, means worthy.

Keep reading

I shared some of the best and worst moments of my life with you. However, I’m afraid that we’ve really reached the end. I’ve found someone who loves me with everything I have and nothing at all and you’ve been running around this town with a girl who makes you forget that I live and breathe in the same world as you. I just want you to know that it was nice while it lasted. I enjoyed losing sleep and trying to so hard not laugh so my mother wouldn’t hear me through my bedroom walls. I’ll remember the way you allowed me to put my hands on the places you were hurting and how I trusted you enough to see me angry and sad and resentful most of all. I’ll never forget the first time you kissed me in the rain or the way nothing else seemed to matter with you. What I’m trying to say is that we grew together. In love and out of love. So thank you for walking through hell and back with me. Thank you for holding my hand when I needed it the most and for loving me in the only way you knew how. It was childish, but it was worth something and I will carry the memory of it somewhere on the inside. Although it’s over now in a way it won’t ever be. Anyhow, I wish you all the happiness in the world and so much love that your hands don’t know what to do with it.
—  We were always meant to say goodbye but remember all the things we wanted / @thewordsyouneverunderstood