greek-poet

Icarus flying towards the morning sun,
away from the limitations that life
attributes to those she can’t keep
from dreaming.

He is the picture of ambition:
the boy who didn’t know when to stop,
the one who wanted to the point
of losing himself to the waves.
He leaves us the knowledge that
we are made to sink or to fly.
And sometimes, both.

Icarus carrying rocks in his pockets,
because he has always felt too heavy,
has felt the need to justify why he
couldn’t drift away with the winter storms.

He had almost hoped it would allow him
the pleasure of melting onto the earth,
to become root, to turn into gravel,
but not even the dirt would know
what to do with the burden of his heart.

He thinks of them as the wax melts,
thinks of the strain in his arms,
thinks of balance and crossed lines and joy.
He thinks that maybe he should have
let go of what weighted him down,
before trying to reach the stars.

This is not a love story,
it’s a boy who let the darkness within
pull him under.
—  If only he had found sunlight, for cowprintgirl (LM)

When Icarus was young,
Daedalus watched him gaze wonder-struck at the sky; from the stars, to the moon, to the sun…
He should have known then he wasn’t meant to keep his feet on the ground.

When Icarus was young,
Daedalus laminated at the prison they were bound to. His gifts lent to create a jail for another that became his own. He watched his son grow cramped between four walls. He wanted more for him.


When Icarus was young,
Daedalus made plans. He thought himself clever, holding the favor of Athena and Hephaestus. ‘I will get us out.’ he thought, ‘I will make sure we fly.’


When Daedalus was old,
He sat on the ground clutching wax dipped feathers. He glanced to the sun, cursing his wit;
His pride.
‘Are you happy now?’ he murmured before laughing softly to himself. ‘A son for a sun.’

—  Daedalus loved his son, but Icarus was in love with the sky // L.H.Z
Τελικά ξέρεις τι ψάχνουμε όλοι; Μία αγκαλιά και έναν άνθρωπο να μας αγαπάει τις στιγμές που δε ξέρουμε πως να αγαπάμε εμείς τον εαυτό μας.
—  Φιλία Κ.
You can’t hold the love of two gods in your hand. It’s war on all fronts; From the sky to the sea, In the mind and in the soul.
It is a punishment to love one immortal. It is damnation to love two. The only thing immortals believe in is a broken heart.
She doesn’t know how to be gentle or soft, not when all she tastes is rust on her tongue.. On her throne to her kingdom made of stone, she thinks maybe she wasn’t meant too.
His hands told lies. Her lips told death.
She’s learning that being terrifying might be better than being loved. At least, it’s safer.
—  Medusa, you were meant to be you’re own kind of monster // L.H.Z 
3

Sappho ( /ˈsæfoʊ/; Attic Greek Σαπφώ ) was an Ancient Greek poet, born on the island of Lesbos. Later Greeks included her in the list of nine lyric poets. Her birth was sometime between 630 and 612 BC, and it is said that she died around 570 BC, but little is known for certain about her life. The bulk of her poetry, which was well-known and greatly admired throughout antiquity, has been lost, but her immense reputation has endured through surviving fragments.

The word lesbian derives from the name of the island of her birth, Lesbos, while her name is also the origin of the word sapphic; neither word was applied to female homosexuality until the nineteenth century. [source]

Echo has a mouth like a waxing moon,
on the verge of spilling out her words,
and, in a millennia of faith in blood,
this is where she meets her first downfall.

It’s a past wound, a distant ache
that shoots up every time it rains,
every time a new hurt presses the spot,
brings it back to overflow her eyes
to the point of a downpour.

The whispering trees used to know
what dangers the world carried;
they seem so faint now, drowned out
by the terrors nature can’t predict.

In this, Narcissus is riverside beauty,
a distraction from dirty pavements
and street corners full of sewage.
No one to warn against the lavish
flourishing from what’s putrid inside.

She loses her voice to his attention,
lets it mold her, break her down,
but he loves her like this, she knows.
He loves her, this time around,
even when he also hates her.

Echo never finds the words to tell
of his hands pushing her to worship,
because this is what he has sought,
someone to build the altar,
who will offer him life and death.

So the curse comes once more,
and she still cries when it rains.
—  Monsters like to pretend they are gods (LM)