“(…) You were my song! Now, let discord scream! You were my flower! Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not Plant things above your grave - (…)”
— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from Interim in “Poems: Edna St. Vincent Millay” (via halcynth)

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“(…) You were my song! Now, let discord scream! You were my flower! Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not Plant things above your grave - (…)”
— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from Interim in “Poems: Edna St. Vincent Millay” (via halcynth)

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I have died for the smallest things. / Nothing washes off.
— Angela Jackson, from “The Love of Travelers,” And All These Roads Be Luminous: Poems Selected and New (via lifeinpoetry)
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Malcolm Liepke.
Open up.

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Venus et servante dans un palais exotique, n/d, watercolor paper, 20,5x27 cm
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You’d break your heart to make it bigger, so why not crack your skull when the mind swells.
Richard Siken, from Landscape With a Blur of Conquerors (via wishbzne)
I hope one day you wake up not bearing that heavy feeling anymore.

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“I believe in poems as I do haunted houses. We say, someone must have died here.”
— Rosa Alcalá, “Voice: An Essay,” from MyOTHER Tongue (via bostonpoetryslam)

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Napoleon Lapathiotis, tr. by Panayotis Sfalagakos, from “Archaic,”