what you do is this: 

you write until you have him 

bleeding ink for you.

the line gets blurry here between 

loving and being loved 

but i promise

when it happens you 

will feel the difference. 

but either way-

no matter who you choose, 

there will be nights when you wrap your arms 

around your waist 

and try not to break 

under the voice in your head 

reminding you you want to live.

remember scars are good stories 

and bruises are only caricatures of a hurt

that never made it to the surface. 

when he looks at you like he 

could kiss you as if you 

were the first baudelaire poem

he’d ever read, 

and you look back and only see 

an ocean to drown in, 

stop calling him back. 

stop seeing if he will come to breakfast 

for you

even though he doesn’t eat in the mornings

and stop 

letting him remind of you 

of yourself.

remember that 

when you get hurt, 

you can heal if you have 

beautiful words to spend the nights with.

but if you hurt someone else, 

not even poetry 

will save you.

sometimes i convince myself i need poetry when all i need is sleep. 

(Source: aforasiandramas, via kindaactivenot)

Rommy Torrico

undocumenting:

image

In Their Words:

Why I create:

  1. To put it simply, I can’t help it. It comes naturally now. I don’t know how to not do it.

  2. To release

  3. To resist

  4. To tell stories

  5. To affirm my existence, harness my own power and make it known that I will not be erased…

(via nayyirahwaheed)

"You must love in such a way that the person you love feels free."

Thich Nhat Hanh (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

most poetry begins with a place.

or an image. 

or a word or a few words dropped into 

some kind of echoing infinity. 

sometimes it begins with a person 

or a moment 

caught under the streetlights, 

gleaming on the pavements 

wet from the rain. 

im still looking for you. 

every poem i write is a poem 

i dont ever want to send

before i find who you’re supposed to be. 

last night 

i forgot what it meant to feel. 

i asked plath 

where the sound of my braying heart went

and heard only silence. 

to fill the emptiness 

i used philosophy as a bridge, 

stretched and burning 

between you and me. 

I am a fake, you know. 

I am a liar and I use poetry 

to pretend im still alive like you. 

coincidence is an old friend

that can never resist dropping by, 

so i pretend to laugh at its jokes from time to time. 

it’s no coincidence we met. 

it’s no way to start a poem to 

talk about the way 

two people can move towards each other slowly, 

their hands stained green from the grass. 

you don’t just start talking about 

a starless sky 

and quoting shakespeare 

and confusion like a typhoon sweeping 

into our tired minds. 

but i do know what i can’t 

start with- 

what I wont let myself start with- 

i can somehow work into the end. 

and im not saying youre an end. 

im just saying i noticed 

that my heart doesn’t work the way it used to,

but when i heard yours, 

it reminded me of an endless, beating sea. 

so-personal:

everything personal

so-personal:

everything personal

(Source: discolor3d, via kindaactivenot)