I meet you in the early morning glints
Sunlight like a gold knife cutting the sky

I shuffle, too sleepy to judge your moves
Your hair, a boxed up waterfall of silver
Your eyes, curved with rows of crop circles
A work of art still growing secretly

Your feet in slippers, I yawn, how comfy
A rumpled blanket around your shoulders
Ah, I’d like to climb back in my bed, too
A tent under the bridge, dancing with wind
I pause, four hands fix it faster than two

He fidgets past the row of tents
Eyes like fishing poles reeling reality

I long to be the fish, that gets away,


Every time I turn the page of my favorite book I feel all kinds of emotions. I used to believe: “If that’s not magic, I don’t know what else is”. And I never thought I would find something like that, but then you appeared and suddenly I see magic everywhere.
—  Ellen Rose
  • A Poem

A Poem

I wrote them down
The words were soft
And then in anger
Turned to rot

And still I wrote
I couldn’t stop
Mark after mark
Thought after thought

They were the impacts
That I had
The callous acts
That made me mad

And every action
Of my hands
Come back at me
And hit me and

It never ends
The non truths
They carry on
They can’t pretend

They aren’t just words
They were my friends
And although they’ve
Come to an end

They will resurface
Once again
These thoughts, these words
They have a plan

Create emotion
Write it down
Smile, anger
Tears, and frowns

Although they’re silent
Make no sound
The memories
Are oh so loud

They never stop
They pound and pound
And remind me
Why I write them down

Too many words
I hope they’re found
Long after I am
In the ground

Remember me
I was born soft
And when I die
I’ll only rot

I can’t give much
When I am gone
So have these words
To carry on

To comfort you
When you are sad
To remind you
Of the life I had

There is no perfect life
My friend
Every beginning
Has its end

But that doesn’t mean
That death is dead
Go change the world
While you still can

It was easier to deal with the burn in the back of my throat that the ache that plagues my heart.
—  Sharka Hill (wordsndshit on instagram) vodka works wonder, just not for long enough

i. this in the dying dusk light, dear – do what you came to do. the dagger is slick in your hand and murder is slick in your mind, so take care to plunge the blade in deep where it hurts. as you glow, i will fade.

ii. (God, girl, i would never hurt you! twilight makes masks from faces, thorns from roses, liars from honest men. where did you get the idea that i have grown claws? when did you start believing there were snakes hidden in my smiles?)

iii. when my blood flowed onto your hands; when your blade bit at the spaces between my ribs and plucked them like piano wire. does a rabbit trust a fox?

iv. (if the fox has shed the old coat and stepped into the new as the world steps into spring)

v. only if the rabbit is not as smart as it seems.

vi. (then the fox deserves rebirth.)

vii. my skin doesn’t warrant rebirth – the old scars still arc their way across my body. why should you have changed, when i stay the same?

viii. (skin is not soul.)

ix. and coat is not character.

x. (this blade would turn on itself before it turned on you.)

xi. dear, don’t you see? it already has.

—  abby, day 188

​A man,
or what remains of one,
sits in a chair,
antique, overstained,
and above him,
slowly lowering themselves,
two breasts
coming to rest,
an arm wrapping around,
dipping a brush into a palette
and mixing black with black,
a black becoming blacker,
the void, expanding,
and the man,
clearing his throat,
looking up at the woman,
at the empty cloth,
at the mixing colors,
at a world beyond view,
one where lovers
don’t play roles of
student and teacher,
man and woman,
and with this heavy thought
he slipped from the chair
to the plank wooden floor
and no one,
no large-breasted woman,
no voice from the clouds,
no levity from the gods of Earth,
stopping him
from submerging into the other-than,
the space beyond the painted world.

what am i but a presence residual in your wake
an echo clinging to the hope of finding home
among emotions wrought with permanence
—  emely
Go ahead and be there for people. Offer a listening ear when they manage to heave the words they’ve been trying to say out of their throat.  Be that shoulder to cry on when the dam breaks and their tears flood down their face. But remember, you are human. Not hospital, not clinic, human. And even they need to be maintained, so it’s only natural that you do too. Don’t forget yourself.
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Once A Day (321/366)
i found strength
in handing out kindness;
even to those who may not
have deserved it.
—  poeticallyordinary
She asked me, “How do I look?”
and I swear, “You look beautiful”
was the biggest lie I’ve ever told,
because she didn’t look beautiful, 
she looked like a dance of sunsets 
and galaxies, she looked like fairy 
dust and spring mornings, 
she looked so much more 
than just beautiful.


~girls are magic