Bittersweet Symphony



" I have a square jaw and a heart
not close to a heart. Toothaches
that remind me I can feel twelve
again, capable of spitting out words
like watermelon seeds, as far as a kiss
to the cheek goes, and as close as a hug
can ever last. Breathe. My mom
would say. After running in a living room
marathon. After pretending I can be anything
I want from a frog, to a princess
to a toenail moon, to the sound of footsteps
on the stairway of our house and back.
Breathe, she’d say, after you hand me
all the poems I wrote for you
like returning a present after you find
an amputated arm, and blood.
You wrote it tragically, you say. And I didn’t
understand how it was too much for you
to understand. Because when you came
I was happy enough to let all that sadness
out, pretend I’m spitting watermelon seeds
as easily again, pretend that they actually grew
into something other than red. And that you,
you loved me not just because you can
but because you actually could
when sadness comes.

Kharla M. Brillo, Sad Seeds and Sad Hearts.
(via pouvoires)

(via pouvoires)

" See the light in others, and treat them as if that is all you see. "

— Wayne Dyer (via creatingaquietmind)

(Source: shaktilover, via creatingaquietmind)

" Lonely people have enthusiasms which cannot always be explained. When something strikes them as funny, the intensity and length of their laughter mirrors the depth of their loneliness, and they are capable of laughing like hyenas. When something touches their emotions, it runs through them… awakening feelings that gather into great armies. "

— Mark Helprin, Winter’s Tale (via taeyeonissm)

(Source:, via ddeardevil)

" And at night I love to listen to the stars. It is like five hundred million little bells. "

— Antoine de Saint Exupéry, The Little Prince (via listentothestories)

(via ddeardevil)


Let me be clear:
this poem is not for you.

I saw you today
and turned right around,
felt all the breath seep out of my lungs,
deflated like a blow-up pool,
faded opaque so I was simply
a trick of light;
walked back home,
stripped down to my shuddering skin
and let the shower burn holes into my back.

I cannot look at you without seeing ghosts.
I keep the closet locked, speed past
the cemeteries, and keep a rosary wrapped
around my windowsill, but you are still here.
And I understand that heartache is not an excuse
for letting myself disappear,
but this is right now.
I just need one more day.


— Schuyler Peck, Running Into Him and Running Away (via schuylerpeck)

(via contramonte)