Roberto Ferri, “Like Poison” (𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥).
Sade Olutola

Love Begins

tannertan36
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d e v o n
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

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noise dept.

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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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@cripplepride9
Roberto Ferri, “Like Poison” (𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥).

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you're kidding.....
edit: these are from 2022 AND THERES MORE!
NICOLA COUGHLAN by Elizaveta Porodina for SKIMS.
Frank O'Hara, from The Selected Poems of Frank O'Hara; "Avenue A"
"Yet she broke away, and turned to the moon, which laid open her bosom, so she felt as if her bosom were heaving and panting with the moonlight."
D. H. Lawrence, from The Rainbow
what U guys need to understand about me is that i think with my clit and also i have a poet’s soul

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benthic angel
was writing about lake sturgeon for a class assignment and showed one of my friends what i'd written.. he then sent part of it back to me with line breaks to turn it into a poem! i just had to draw something for it :]
poem text under the readmore:
couldn't decide which lie to go with
Israel dropping a new lie
Jenny Hval, from Girls Against God
Ingeborg Bachmann, In the Storm of Roses: Invocation of the Great Bear; from ‘Songs from an Island’, tr. Mark Anderson
Poem of the Day 31 August 2023
A Wall
by Robert Browning
O the old wall here! How I could pass Life in a long midsummer day, My feet confined to a plot of grass, My eyes from a wall not once away! And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green: Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loath, In lappets of tangle they laugh between. Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims The body,--the house no eye can probe,-- Divined, as beneath a robe, the limbs? And there again! But my heart may guess Who tripped behind; and she sang, perhaps: So the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess Died out and away in the leafy wraps. Wall upon wall are between us: life And song should away from heart to heart! I--prison-bird, with a ruddy strife At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start-- Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing That's spirit: tho' cloistered fast, soar free; Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring Of the rueful neighbours, and--forth to thee!

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Jane O. Wayne // Kate Jacobs
Little Big Bully, Heid E. Erdrich
Litany
by Billy Collins
You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine… –Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman’s tea cup. But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and–somehow–the wine.
“Beautiful girl, you can do hard things.”
— Unknown
Shuri Kido, from "The Dry Season", Names and Rivers, trans. Tomoyuki Endo and Forrest Gander

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Prayer
Every day I want to speak with you. And every day something more important calls for my attention—the drugstore, the beauty products, the luggage I need to buy for the trip. Even now I can hardly sit here among the falling piles of paper and clothing, the garbage trucks outside already screeching and banging. The mystics say you are as close as my own breath. Why do I flee from you? My days and nights pour through me like complaints and become a story I forgot to tell. Help me. Even as I write these words I am planning to rise from the chair as soon as I finish this sentence.
Marie Howe in The Kingdom of Ordinary Time, 2008
Alterous attraction culture is telling people about alterous attraction like you're spreading the gospel or something
Don't worry I'm not persistent or obnoxious I just want more people to know about it
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Like fr though