Lauren Ashley Long

Fiona Apple  (via thatkindofwoman)

Neil Gaiman (via mttbll)

“ You are like a coffee ring on my notebook. I don’t remember how you got there, most people would tear out your page, but I like it. I like the way you linger under my words, like a caffeine halo and I’m addicted to you. ” -l.s (19/08/2015)

The Parent Trap (1998)

Vincent van Gogh (via northernmade)

(original post, with introduction by Zinzi Clemmons)

Something my sister said once, that’s become an important thing to me (via legally-undead)

We’re born out of candyland and cookies, after our mothers become determined that this batch will be better. Be careful eyes and ears, what you allow in. We siphon the darkness from the beginning, often hiding from the light. We grow up on lunch sack poetry, never wandering more than ten miles from home. In the wake of oblivion, we turn into an unknown constellation, we start to feel the unsaid unknowns within our pores. We watch the skies turn red, the sun becomes the bomb as colors explode into dusk. We keep count. We fall in love with the American Icarcus. You and me are changing. We sit outside our windows, listening to cascading raindrops and reversed rainstorms, rambling memoirs, and remember “onward, upward, ever forward” is the way we lead life encoded. We find the creaks and cracks, redefining reality– our days being encountered with ambiguous transparency– a little bit louder now, we discover we’re no longer muselessness, we’re a quiet joy, the loneliest apparition, a space where we can be simply, exhaling catalysts. Smoke from pallid fire spread by the wind, we pack our suitcase and begin to wander. We’ve become boy wanderings and she’s an Argonauts. We meet meandering lions, figures in the mist, and women with tempest filled eyes, after the whispers of universe speaking, we tattoo our skin “vivere mori” defining our existence, and we only know just an inkling, our flaws stitched with good intentions, stealing neverland for our own home. This is the era of the American Masters, of writers, placing our fingers on triggers and submarine dreams. We carry bottles of velixir and mumble under our tongues violet words, carrying seasoning: parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. These fragments are ascension dreams and slurred sounds, sounding like jayarrarr, confused by everything, molded into stories of our scars. We write about memories of performers, and who we hold in our heart’s chambers, the you soothe my soul love, we beg fall through me, be my smoke in a tin, my ordinary wonder, accept me, my tarnished soul. We’re searching for the movement, living off of cigarettes and leather, manuscripts and bourbon. We’re bitten by an eternally coiling serpent, dripping blood onto yellow pad papers, turning into our core thoughts about who we are. We begin with titles “Of Mice and Misanthropes” We’ve pocketed a thousand clever words, our admissions of guilt, words without echoes, thoughts at a glance, weary orgasms, and a final sin. Until we’re seeing the horizon again, sitting at the café of the damned, with a sign outside “Heroes Welcomed” Our titles not found, stripping savage writing and finding promises in the binding of used books at the corner bookstore. The dust will sing, and the dust dances too. We find table tops covered in beauty and the duplicity of youth, we compare them to lions and birds, learning a little about you and them. We’re always the poet inside, stuttering words with original energy, dancing with words, like it’s ordinary life until the siren of the east, and realize we’re only part gravity, a hole in the whole. We have bags of dead books, authors, poets, soaking in literature to expand our knowledge. Transforming art and literature into artreture. Generally raw. You’re not just a writer who writes, the ocean is in your eyes, you’re wounded soul battles, you’re greatness that lies within. It was when you’re hair was so long, we’re awaiting the break of the sun, for a blank slate, descending ascension, laying under grass skies in the middle of bedlam. Watching whispering dreams decay in the clouds carried by the wind. We jump off roof tops, we’re girls broken down, running with mustangs,  and the moon shows the mist from tobacco that sends sensations through our spines, settling when mars comes into view. Our pen is our pistola, and we capture poems from cursed lips, out of her head, in a pile of fox bones. And we’re tired. We write our shout of the day on chalkboard paint, hoping someone will read it. We pass the return point on nothing and everything. Some chose to be anonymous for your safety but we ask not to become forgetlings. We make our way to the Vagabond King’s castle, wishing to find an abstract escape, where it rains all day and search from the heart of our mind for amethyst hearts and secreted sins. We’re searching for wisdom and ways to become an apocalypse poet. There are no off switches and our faces become untouchable. Can we set our lives in italics in underground ink. The answers lie inside star light and city streets, in the fierest fables, come in three for Thursdays and during midnight rants. There is hope in healing, hope handwritten within moderate climates and inside birdcages and even our own ribcages. We’re the very modern man and fetal antichrists. We claim it’s that one over there, underneath the shedding petals of the lilys of the field. We lay our children into kats kradles, and use fluorescent ink across the ceiling telling the tales we never want to forget. It’s in this silent storm we wonder why do we think so much, the words lingering inside a profound ocean, forever in outer space. We fold our thoughts into origami minds, and make sure what’s worth writing down finds empty pages. The doctors are surprised when they discover our hearts are made of ink. We eagerly out run the apathy and shattered eminents leaving a legacy, as we leave you a pen, hoping you know what comes next. We find secrets in milkshakes and splinters, love and raisins, we experiment with being the devil’s muse inside the magical typewriter. We expand after we buy a new notebook for daily doodles, finding the wrong way out of writer’s block, only to find it again in enlightened shadows and rhapsody in green. We wear nametags that say mister self-destruct, because it’s what we know best. The spirited saphira calms our nerves and settles back into the earths atmosphere, leaving the coolniverse and the super satellite orbiting the moon.  We find 10,000 sidewalks marked with letters in black and blue, lined with trees full of peaches fresh for the picking, and ponds full of ducklings, and where the crooked girl dances, finding things that mean something. Now we’re looking for wisdom in bathroom stall poetry, collecting six little milk teeth.  We swallow the sun and breath music, we look beyond the sunrise and find patterns in smoken mirrors. We like painting daffodils, waving when jhay jhay the jet plane flies overhead. We soak in dreams and ashes and imagine butterflies dreaming in the afternoon sun by the sea, the sea that lives in me, collecting buckets of glass and seashells and chaiivee, becoming friends with sea turtles and narwhales and naming them Rakuli, because it’s unrhymable. We’re entrapped thoughts and become the loser phenomenon, and tell strangers to think us strange. We cry best with poetic tears with mellifluous flow. The introvert monologues is playing down the street, and we know this because we’re always in transition, taking stock of what matters most. We write letters to you, about how we’re living morbid, spilling ink in run down verses, ways to paint me secure with pens and wind. The truth is, we’re most alive in dreams and we’re never the greyer as the rain begins to pour. We met the girl with the yellow hair and show her the words we captured.  Our soul turns pensieve with strayed thoughts and work mens comp. Cordelia writes with zannus and gracious words using her inner expression. We found silent gray sitting alongside the wall paper and as little birds sing. There’s a poetic persistence in every day life and daily digressions how to face your demons. We read about blinding chaos in Romeo’s affair, burning stories and midnight oil. We live among misfit words and tragic verses, we daydream at night with lazy solutions to reality, we wake poetically undead and poetically profound. Ok, call us gods and goddesses of written word, and we’ll be sailing through august, swimming with whales as light as gravity,  until august is over. We find trains with graffiti spirits along side rivers of stars, misused paperless words washed upon shores under the lilac trees. We are deeply rooted in sleepless songs  whispering words between willow branches. We beg our lovers to fuck me with words in divine cacophony, because we’re heartless romantics beyond the back line. We change our path and start heading down north playing with heavy words and unfinished sentences.  This is our pain, our purpose, we’re imprisoned philosophers in reading writing and arithmetic. We’re sent skyward in pseudo perfection searching for poet dreamers and the light of angelical darkness. We count pennies in the well and search behind eyes, and haunting the ghost who writes. We exit in grand chariots, finally revealing our hidden desires, surrounded by the wings of autumn’s dragonflies. We make our beds, folding bedsheets on our own, counting the like stitches and letting our dreams take flight out our open windows with our ink stained hearts. These are our small corners of life, let’s keep it fresh, always acknowledging, the pilgrim soul inside.