A Piece of Pie Would be Divine
Here is a new spiritual practice for you: don’t take your thoughts so seriously.
Eckhart Tolle (via jordanxanax)
Your Wish

You want someone to come home to

After a long day at work

You’d like a beer and a quiet space to sit

And watch TV

And then you’ll go to bed and

Have sex

And it could be

Great

You wish to whisper into her ear

Both the beautiful and

The wicked

A strong love you can share

With a fierce woman

One who will fight for

And protect

And care for you

Yes

That is what you want

Your poem "The morning is indifferent" is a perfect example of the poet you could be if you did not for the biggest part bury your talent in the old fashioned sentimental sop of rhythm and rhyme. Even when your rhyming efforts are attempting to make a statement other than some sap about love they lose the hard hitting edge the same thought would convey if written in the style of contemporary poetry. Food for thought.
Anonymous

victim-of-convenience:

This is officially the last time I will ever respond to a message belittling rhyme and rhythm, so I suppose I should make it count.

On a personal level, I remain unclear as to what you hope this information will accomplish. I like rhyme and rhythm. It floats my boat, but if it’s not what floats yours, you may want to launch said boat out into the middle of whatever does and sail away from this here blog, because more often than not, I’m going to be dropping rhymes like Timothy Leary dropped acid.

Would that I were as good at broadening minds, but if you truly don’t like it, then you just don’t like it, and more power to you. There are lots of things I don’t like. Burnt garlic, cheap scotch, The Big Bang Theory, and people who are more in love with the sound of their own voice than the words it’s abusing spring to mind. But if you’re just saying you don’t like it because someone on tumblr told you you ought not, then I would urge you to be curious enough to peer beneath blanket statements.

I don’t know why this tedious dismissal of rhyme as “old-fashioned” holds such sway. It can be if the writer wishes it to be, or it can be as modern as anything else. And so what if the writer wishes it to be? Who wouldn’t want to bang out a couple Rembrandts in their spare time? When did craftsmanship become a bad thing? Because there is something timelessly entrancing and sensuous about words well crafted. I don’t know too many people of this generation who don’t split in two right where they stand when Jeff Buckley sings Leonard Cohen, either. What exactly is undesirable about a piece of poetry that speaks like a spell, moves like a lover? If I feel like lighting up a cigarette and asking the author if it was good for them, too, then I know beyond doubt that I’ve just read poetry.

And I’m not talking about my own writing. I rarely like my writing. Nor am I speaking against freeverse. I obviously like freeverse, or I wouldn’t write it. Neither am I pigeonholing, according to your theory, freeverse as the form of “hard-hitting” poetry and rhyme of “love poems”. One style can accomplish either aim just as effectively as the other. A poet can cry down injustice in rhyme and it can ring out like unsheathed swords amidst a battle cry (and with no less impact), then beg mercy of love in a few broken, brutal lines that will slam you to a hault like a narrowly avoided accident but still leave you wistful for days. And we need both. You can roll your eyes at love poetry all you want, but whether you’ve written about love or not, you’ve lain alone at night in the dark and been eaten alive by it. We exist on a scale, and we need the soft and gentle just as much as the cold and bare. And as with anything else, there’s a bar between, holding them together. A connectivity. A oneness. To me, that’s part of the beauty of this medium.

But what do I know. I’m just the gardener, tending what grows. (Yeah, that’s right… I rhymed.)

#hardcore #Spiderman #tatoolife

#hardcore #Spiderman #tatoolife

I think about you sometimes

Me one day

Me one day

For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die.
Romans 5:7 (via stellarcentaur)

i have not long returned from taking you home,

but i still smell the wind in the trees
and the sunshine soaked air that
rushed through your long brown hair,

i still picture the people we looked at
and the things we saw, the comments
and laughter about it all.

some sundays, i wish the sun didn’t have to set.

"some sundays" by typical treatment. (via typicaltreatment)

earthnation:

my room isn’t messy it’s grunge

fartgallery:

Why are they called palm trees when they wont even fit in my hand