William's Writings
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Suffering: Fools. I’m gonna write you a letter, hun.
And in that letter I won’t talk about
those days when we used to laugh
a lot by the lake together, then run
indoors when the rain poured down
on our fragile heads like we were
made of that sugar that webought together from down the street
every Friday when everything in
the corner store was half off, just
another sale to make some cash for
this broken town with the cash
stuck between the hollow walls
and the boney animals adorned withextra skin, livin’ on that barn that we met at
that one day right after we graduated from
university, hoping to get away from
the world but still bein’ so young
that all we could do was watch the
clouds go by as our hearts grew
larger and larger, threateningto explode like the bombs that showered
the town that night after we made
dents in the wall, memories on
white sheets, and letters to our pasts.Oh, how foolish love can be.
I’m gonna write you a letter, hun.
I’m gonna write you a letter and
pray for the day that your sugar-sweet
existence comes back from the sewer
that your life drained into that night.I’m gonna write you a letter, hun.
I’m gonna write you a letter and
tell you how you made my heart
explode, but broke yourself in
the process.(via os-withoutthe-xs)
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“You are, at once, both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.” — Franz Kafka (via larmoyante)(via noyaz)
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(via os-withoutthe-xs)
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(via stearic)
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“She lives the poetry she cannot write” — Oscar Wilde (via tat-art)(via thugsondrugs)
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(via thescampii)
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Rescue
We’ve been staring at this clock for ages now.
It doesn’t tick or tock, the hand just glides smoothly,
Over the face,
No interruptions, or time to weep,
Just swift seconds, dragged
Incessantly.
What are we doing here?
Why are we like this, stuck still,
In slow motion? What’s our
Aim?
“Are we dolls now?”, I wonder,
Trying to force back the hands of time.
Trying to unwind the memories that passed us by, so that,
We maybe end up back where we started.
So that we’re maybe happy again.
So that maybe we don’t slit our wrists out of pure boredom?
Another aeon has passed and you haven’t blinked once.
I’ll give you a call when I get out of here.
When I’m free.
And I’ll hope to God at least you’ll close your eyes once.
And I’ll hope to God that you speak to me again, that you pick up the phone, and utter the words, “Take me with you.”
And I’ll hope to God we’ll never see our own faces again because you’re always in my reflection,
And it sickens me.
Adieu, mein puppe-gesicht Freund.
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I met beauty once,
she was sitting on an empty bus,
moving through a crowded city,
in the pouring rain.
(beauty as a feeling not a person) -
morning after
thoughts about the impermanence of a hook up written in permanent marker in the places he touched
by Lindsay Bottos
external poetry
(via systematicindecay)
