hear-my-mouth

I am not a loud lover.
You will not be tagged in multiple statuses with the hash tag WCW or WCE.
The pictures we take will be few, so even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to saturate people’s feeds with our affection.
And no my dear, it has nothing to do with you, I’m simply not photogenic.

I am not a loud lover.
My displays of affection do not come in lavish gifts worth an Instagram post or make out sessions in subways.
You will know my feelings when you catch my eye.
You will hear my love for you in my laugh, in the gentle ways I tease you.

I am not a loud lover.
My poems will be loud for me.
My metaphors and similes will join the war against your insecurities, entering with a war cry you would never hear directly from my mouth.
Their main goal will be penetration of your darkness; at times they will use blunt force and at other times they will caress your mind while I caress your skin.

I am not a loud lover.
I won’t Tweet about the dates we plan to go on, or the afternoons we spend in each other’s arms, but it is then that I will let the fire you cause overtake me.
I’ll let my hands express exactly how much I’ve been wanting to touch such a relentless masterpiece.
My lips will be a whisper away from your ear and I will explain the countless desires you instilled in me just by walking into the room, the curiosity that assaulted my mind the minute I saw your smile.
And then they won’t; they’ll be against yours, and I hope that then you will understand my dear.
I hope you understand that love can be just as strong quiet as it can be loud; I hope you understand that just because I don’t publicly proclaim it doesn’t mean I love you any less.

I am not a loud lover.
I am not a loud lover.
I am not a loud lover, but I will love you.

—  maxwelldpoetry, “Loud Lover”

813 Month Day 4 - Road Trip (word from rosiedenn)

“Jesus Christ, What the hell is going on up there?”

“I don’t know, but we just had to go and visit that market, didn’t we? Now we won’t be able to get to the resort until tonight, or I guess in this traffic, next year.”

“Rox, you’re the one who missed the exit and several turns because you insist on using that goddamn GPS that gives its directions at the shittiest times. We were already getting antsy stuck in the car, I was trying to make the best of a bad situation, alright?”

“Ax, stop swearing in front of my nephew–Sora, I told you twice already, sit down properly or you’ll fly out the window if we get in an accident–”

“Oh right, yeah, because scaring the kid with promises of death is notably better than him hearing my potty mouth, right?“

“Axel, I’m in no mood for this right now, can you just shut up and find the way to the Park?”

“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Singing ‘Hakuna Matata’?!”

“Uncle Roxas, I, um…I need the bathroom.”

home is subjective.

my parents have been divorced since i was seven years old and they each have their own houses and i called each one of those home.
i kept a suitcase full of my clothes and necessities and i traveled from one to the next like the tide rushing into the shore then back out to the sunset.

when i was eighteen i moved away for school and every time i leave class, i tell my friends that i am heading back to my dorm room but i hear my mouth say “i’m going home”, even though i know i will be packing up my stuff in four months
and never looking back.

now, i look at you and i wonder if today is the right day to settle in, if i can take off my shoes at the door, if this is the one that will stick.

—  home is subjective (K.P.K)
Her womb smelled like it was burnt.

(Translation of the message with Ayato, Touka, and Yomo. Please feel free to send me a message for any corrections!)

The children who were meant to be born, died. The vision of the future convulses.

Someone declared that they’ll crush only half of the broad bean.
The gene is in a severe bipolar state.
The nucleic acid sequence having no recollection of its own actions.

All of the fingers that were supposed to be connected from start to end, are scattered around; it’s annoying.

If you look closely at the knot, you can see that it can be surprisingly easy to untie.

I was always asked to keep the switch.
Go forward.
Go back.
Stop.

I can hear my voice from the mouth.
That voice gave me a feeling of discomfort and it had become extremely disgusting but, no one noticed that and everyone was under the impression that it was indeed, my voice.

Sin is irresponsible. I’m getting tired of being forgiven.
My shoulders have even forgotten about my legs.

I open the door with the side of my arm.

The path that I should’ve advanced in is gone and darkness pulled onto the horizon that lay right beneath it.

“Come on, come on! Come on, come on!”

Go forward.
Go back.
Stop.

I can hear my voice from the bones.

“Did you know that our voice is the mixed voices from dad and mom? No wonder it’s so disgusting.”

I pinched my nose and jumped down without a pause. Just like how a child would when jumping into a pool.

Even the never-stopping rain,
even the never-breaking night,
even the never-ending agony.

It’s surely there, it’s just that it wasn’t there until now.

Falling down, falling down.
It’s as if right has become left.

And on the brink of collision, I recall Björk’s song,

I am not a loud lover.
You will not be tagged in multiple statuses with the hash tag WCW or WCE.
The pictures we take will be few, so even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to saturate people’s feeds with our affection.
And no my dear, it has nothing to do with you, I’m simply not photogenic.

I am not a loud lover.
My displays of affection do not come in lavish gifts worth an Instagram post or make out sessions in subways.
You will know my feelings when you catch my eye.
You will hear my love for you in my laugh, in the gentle ways I tease you.

I am not a loud lover.
My poems will be loud for me.
My metaphors and similes will join the war against your insecurities, entering with a war cry you would never hear directly from my mouth.
Their main goal will be penetration of your darkness; at times they will use blunt force and at times they will caress your mind while I caress your skin.

I am not a loud lover.
I won’t Tweet about the dates we plan to go on, or the afternoons we spend in each other’s arms, but it is then that I will let the fire you cause overtake me.
I’ll let my hands express exactly how much I’ve been wanting to touch such a relentless masterpiece.
My lips will be a whisper away from your ear and I will explain the countless desires you instilled in me just by walking into the room, the curiosity that assaulted my mind the minute I saw your smile.
And then they won’t; they’ll be against yours and I hope that then you will understand my dear.
I hope you will understand that love can be just as strong quiet as it can be loud; I hope you understand that just because I don’t publicly proclaim it doesn’t mean I love you any less.

I am not a loud lover.
I am not a loud lover.
I am not a loud lover, but I will love you.

—  maxwelldpoetry, “Loud Lover”
8

If You Only Knew - Live From Houston (x)

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Episode 53 - The September Monologues

Cecil: The wind out of the desert is changing. I feel it. You feel it. A shiver in the midday heat. A crackle in the television broadcast. A shift in your immune system.

It is September, and something is different.

It is September, and the days have gone sinister – from first eye’s open to last slow breathing.

It is September, and so, listeners – dear listeners – Night Vale Public Radio is proud to introduce The September Monologues.

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