This is where the mountains crumbled
for the first time.
This is where we found a pile of rocks
and pretended we knew something about rebuilding.
Are you still sorry about any of it?
Let’s forget about the candles we left on all night.
Let’s forget about all those clouds we ran from.
Baby, the storm was us the whole time,
and you have to promise to tell me when the
monsters stop showing up here.
I can’t remember the last time I was destroyed,
but I have a feeling it was all in my head.
Maybe these poems were never about how many
people got their hands on my heart,
but whose blood was on my own fingertips.
I don’t know what the war tasted like,
but I remember the graveyard after.
If I survived before, it wasn’t the right way.
If I survived before,
it means I can do it again differently.
Do these pieces of wood everywhere
means someone is building is something or
someone is destroying something?
Maybe the important thing is that it doesn’t matter.
Maybe the important thing is that it is our choice
what to make of it.”
— Y.Z, the reminders we never had (via rustyvoices)
A woman-of-color who writes poetry or paints or dances or makes movies knows there is no escape from race or gender when she is writing or painting. She can’t take off her color and sex and leave them at the door or her study or studio. Nor can she leave behind her history. Art is about identity, among other things, and her creativity is political.”
— Gloria Anzaldúa, Making Face/Making Soul: Haciendo Caras — Creative and Cultural Perspectives by Women of Color (via jalwhite)
For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.
This is not your destruction.
This is your birth.”
Poetry reading at the Contemporary Art Museum (ft. Mary Jo Bang & Carl Phillips).
respect. the years of your creative puberty. however long it may take. you need them to become yourself. you need the maturation of your art to become the artist you dream of.”
— nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)
You are a
and a while,
do not drown
And I cried. For myself. For this woman talkin’ about love. For all the women who have ever stretched their bodies out anticipating civilization and finding ruins.”
— Sonia Sanchez (Homegirls and Handgrenades)
Art hurts. Art urges voyages — and it is easier to stay at home.”
— Gwendolyn Brooks (via observando)
i’m not a girl
i’m a storm with skin”
— (via chewingdirt)
scientists ran a DNA test on my poetry
and found traces of you
in every single line.
your hair, the two mountain peaks
of your upper lip,
God, those fucking cheekbones.
where did you come from?
how did you get all over my hands?
I’m drinking through my verses
trying to write something
that doesn’t sound like
“I didn’t mean to make you a habit”
but it’s all the same, really.
I turn the page upside down
and can still read the words perfectly.
I should take up smoking.
I hear it’s calming and, most likely, fatal.
I’ve written so many poems, and none of them
are even mine.”
1. I’m lonely so I do lonely things.
2. Loving you was like going to war, I never came back the same.
3. You hate women, just like your father and his father, so it runs in your blood.
4. I was wandering the derelict car park of your heart looking for a ride…