When instead of flowers, makeup, or coffee, he brings you an 1879 edition of King Lear. 🥹📚
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When instead of flowers, makeup, or coffee, he brings you an 1879 edition of King Lear. 🥹📚

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Anybody else just gets possessed by the soul of a dead poet in the most mundane situation with lines like
“I’d die for you, I’d kill for you. But I’d live and let live if you asked me to.”
And then you’re back in reality in the middle of a crowded subway as if nothing happened?
This is the Lit nerd part of me speaking:
I just bought a new poetry book (Time is a Mother by Ocean Vuong) and I’ve been thinking a lot to myself about what (for me) makes a “good poem”. I’ve seen people say that poetry represents some form of stability or nostalgia, words that can remind one of their past and things they miss. As much as I can understand this point of view and somewhat agree with it, this new poetry book created a whole different perspective for me.
For me, beautiful poetry is ephemeral, transient, something which may be understood for a fleeting second and then lost again. Good poetry is the poetry you would spend hours, days, thinking about, trying to find that different viewpoint that helps you to see the deepest meanings of the poem.
I also think it’s important to recognise that a poem which you can’t understand, which doesn’t click with you, isn’t necessarily a “bad” poem, but a poem you haven’t looked at in enough ways with enough motivation or enough belief.
This was just a rant but let me know what makes a good poem for you?
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These days I feel like the very essence of dark academia is knowing how to induce bacchic madness and the ability to quote obscure poets but not knowing how to open a door using a key
sometimes me and midnighter are the same
The clouds are bringing me grief—
They come and go; no one seems to misses them.
I miss them. I grieve for them when they dissipate.
Come back.