Oh the Places

You'll go if you learn to let go

buttonpoetry:

Portland Poetry Slam - “Choose Your Own Adventure”

"Every morning starts with a dark room and an ominous door."

Brenna Twohy, Alex Dang, Doc Luben, and Leyna Rynearson, performing at the 2014 National Poetry Slam. Subscribe to Button on YouTube!

A clock tower

*bell rings once*
How many thoughts,
Can fit into a mind that’s been,
Clogged by misdeeds

*bell rings a second time*
Enough to realize that lies,
Aren’t dishonesty,
But fear personified through dialect?

*bell rings a third time*
Why is it that I can recall beer stains,
On a white tshirt from 3 months ago,
But not my nephews favorite color?

*bell rings a fourth time*
An uncle that realized depression,
Isn’t about wanting to die today,
But not caring if he sees tomorrow

*bell rings a fifth time*
I don’t mean to steal your happiness,
But for the love of god lend me some,
I’m losing what it means to be human

*bell rings a sixth time*
Shut the hell up! You do not remind me,
Of what time it is but instead,
Just how much I’ve lost today,

*the bells stop*
I’ve remembered now,
At the end of time the only thing left,
Is the quiet that symbolizes it.

buttonpoetry:

G. Yamazawa - “Elementary”

"I became a bully, because we all want to feel like America sometimes."

Performing for Beltway (D.C.) at the 2014 National Poetry Slam. Beltway won the tournament.

I’m not the man you know from home,
little words break the silence that we once said,
would never impede the laughter we would share,

little shards of glass make up,
the heart you once called home,
be careful not to cut yourself on my past,

pain has become a euphemism,
for the indecencies that you used to tolerate,
but now have become too much to bare,

you pinned yourself to the crucifix,
you once held me to at gunpoint,
saying that I had not given enough,

the nails that held us together have been pulled apart,
because we have warped like 2x4s of a building,
that has stood for far too long,

I am not the man that you know from home,
the silence we now share has become violent,
like words that were pondered too long,
before said.


atomicflan:

gryffindorgay:

“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings condemning them to spend their lives in search for their other halves.”

~Plato’s The Symposium.

How many times will I reblog this? “Always.”

We did it at school. The myth also says that the pairings could be male/female, male/male or female/female (just sayin’)

(Source: eternalseptember, via peaceful-moon)

I find it hard to sleep

I’m afraid of what my mind thinks when I fall fast asleep muttering words under breathless blankets. A cocoon of cluttering silence that clouds the brightest part of my mind with indifference to preference of purification of the crystals I once called ideas that are now nothing but precipitate. What happened to recrystallization of my crude thoughts. Have my distillation columns been busted. Is the feed too strong? Thoughts of the chemistry represent an umbrella beneath a rainbow, that I shield myself from. I guess the fragmentation of light scares me, because if particles behave as waves I guess it’s just a matter of time until I too become broken into my components.

Soo these came in the mail today, and I haven’t written one in a long time, but I think it’s about time I got back to them. So, my dear, this one is for you. 

Your body is a maze. I am but a humble lab rat attempting to navigate the corridors in the hope of understanding something that is beyond my conception of distance, and time, and maybe it’s lost on me but it doesn’t matter, because someone somewhere is learning from it. 

Your freckles are the stars and I am but a humble astronomer attempting to study the patterns in them and to some they look like plain dots, but to me they appear as constellations telling the story of every trial and tribulation that we have ever put ourselves through. 

And your hands, my god, your hands. They are the concrete bricks that helped fortify the coliseum and I am but a humble tourist learning what the term awe truly means because whenever I glance at them I start to understand what it means to be built. 

And perhaps it is not time nor distance that is the true separator in our world, but instead the lack to be able to see past the illusion of both, and notice that there is only love.

Soo these came in the mail today, and I haven’t written one in a long time, but I think it’s about time I got back to them. So, my dear, this one is for you.

Your body is a maze. I am but a humble lab rat attempting to navigate the corridors in the hope of understanding something that is beyond my conception of distance, and time, and maybe it’s lost on me but it doesn’t matter, because someone somewhere is learning from it.

Your freckles are the stars and I am but a humble astronomer attempting to study the patterns in them and to some they look like plain dots, but to me they appear as constellations telling the story of every trial and tribulation that we have ever put ourselves through.

And your hands, my god, your hands. They are the concrete bricks that helped fortify the coliseum and I am but a humble tourist learning what the term awe truly means because whenever I glance at them I start to understand what it means to be built.

And perhaps it is not time nor distance that is the true separator in our world, but instead the lack to be able to see past the illusion of both, and notice that there is only love.