Poetry

Sideblog of caffeinecoldforclosers. Stay for some lit- poems, writing, lyrics- some famous, some undiscovered, and some originals. Thanks!

mymodernmet:

19-year-old photographer Nicolas Bruno reenacts sleep paralysis-induced nightmares in his stunning, surreal photographs of a dark dreamworld.

(via punkghostie)

my-hipster-blog-stuff:

e—lephant:

My hands are wooden
and when I try and write
the words fall on the ground
before any eyes fall
on them
and they form a pile
of wooden poetry
at my wooden feet
until I am bare
and they are raked up
by metal fingers
and thrown in a plastic bag
and new songs take four seasons to blossom
but they are never read
and this wasted language
is the saddest thing to me.

msbelievers:

vampire-munny:

supersherwho5:

unluckycupcake:

oopsspilledmymusic:

x-twisted-x:

remember that one time when Franks guitar string broke so he just sat on the stage pouting?

image

imageimage

image

This was the cutest moment in history

AWWWWWWWWWWWWW

There are a lot of comments on this post about how ‘if he was a good guitar player he would still be able to play’

so let me show you what happens right after that last gif

image

Then he backflips away from your ignorance

image

video here

(Source: retoxed-romance, via cherribalm)

(Source: prettyryan, via vicesandvirtrues)

agelessdaughter:

[PATD meme] → [2/7] songs → Mad As Rabbits

"Me and Brendon sing back and forth, everyone is doing backup vocals on it — it was definitely the most group sounding [song]. In the last refrain, the 'reinvent love' thing kind of just summed up the whole process.” 

—Ryan Ross

(via thebookofryanross)

I. Mornings

Mornings in my room with the street lights still flickering
From a long night of tossing and turning and hoping
I won’t wake up without you.

The coffee is just a cheap dose of love,
There’s nothing in my kitchen that can taste sweet enough
As you.

The neighbors left their garage open again
For the third time this week.
I’m eating breakfast alone again
For the third time this week.

I spend mornings at this table
Wishing the sun would come up.
I’m still not able to call you
And tell you
Everything I want.

II. Afternoons

Afternoons in my room,
After noon I am missing you,
It gets lonelier here without you
I can’t think or breathe
Or seem to do anything.

What if things could change?
What if I stopped walking these streets?
What if I let the ink dry before
Crying into these sheets?

Your old hairs, my pillowcase.
Progress probably won’t commence.
I guess, I need silence to figure things out.

I spend afternoons in my bed,
Sunlight pouring on my face.
I know, I know things won’t be the same.
I know, I know things won’t be the same.

III. Evenings

Evenings in my room,
I’m staring out of my window
The sunset reminds me
That I’ll fall asleep without you.

I waste hours on street sides
Waiting for the street lights to flicker on,
And for my brain to flicker off.

I won’t call you again,
I’ve figured everything out.
The pages aren’t wet,
My eyes aren’t wet,
And I get that things will never be the same.

I spend evenings in my bed,
Curled up against my pillow
Like I’ll never hold anything else
Ever again in my hands.

—   

"A Day Without You" - Nishat Ahmed

I don’t know if people ever read/enjoy when I explain or give backgrounds to my poems but “Afternoons” was actually a depressing acoustic song I wrote today and I decided to make it a trilogy and now here you go. Okay.

(via sickwithsyllables)

(via strawwbear)

ohelsanna:

scientists say we are
made of dead stars
i could not believe it
until i felt your lips

a million galaxies in
the space of a breath
a thousand light years
in a glorious instant

i never thought i
could be an astronaut
until i met you

(Source: succubesties, via lyssyloohoo)

Painted

nanalew:

All these men
Who speak of love—
And think they mean it.

They crackle and hiss with the glow of admiration
Infatuation
—The sparks of love
But never a flame.

One who’s never seen fire
Claims a candle
—a trapping of a dream.

But he who’s felt a forest ablaze
Recognizes a paltry flame