strawberrypiesforbreakfast:

I’m too weak to be your cure.

Release. Receive.

messagestothemoon:

My fingers are heavy. They are dead weight of all the words pushing at my prints, aching to be set free, but not knowing how. You can see similes and soliloquies skirting to the edge, waiting for a release, and upon failure, soaking back into my bloodstream and circulating again. I am a cycle no child can ever learn how to ride. 

These words- they are more than twenty-six scribbles splattered between white spaces. In the tilt and turn of each jagged curve, and every straight line, rests a story, a person, an entity. Breathing, deep and slow in the womb of our ink, sleeping, stirring in the lull of its own beauty. And every time one makes it to the page, diffuses out of our pores and into the abyss of white and light waiting to embrace its fibers, we lose a part of ourselves. And the miracle of it is, that by shedding that skin, by letting go of a piece of our soul; we become more whole. And sometimes, the magic woven into its threads, carries it upward to the eyes of someone dangling off the other edge of the world, and seeps into their existence. 

These things- these scribbles and spaces and sentences. They can save you. And if there’s anything holier, I haven’t found it yet. This cycle inside of me- it is something I will never regret.

You & Me

strawberrypiesforbreakfast:

We used to dance—-
better than
the way palm tree leaves 
beautifully sway
to the whispers 
of the wind;
better than 
the way our fingers
teasingly play tango 
with the keys 
of magnificent pianos; 
better than
the way the bristles 
of an artist’s paint brush 
gracefully perform ballet 
on the stage 
of a canvas board. 

We have our moves
etched
into the walls 
of our foot bones.

& never will her prints
be able 
to match 
mine. 

(She’ll never
be me, love;
she’ll never
be me.) 

— Charles Bukowski 

(Source: lunaoki, via roscoe-)

strawberrypiesforbreakfast:

                                        I remember
                                            the night when
                                      you engraved
                                           your promises
                                       on my back
                                             with your finger tips
                                        & watered them
                                             to grow into
                                                   a vineyard
                                           wrapped around
                                                 my ribs.
                                             Yesterday,
                                        you broke
                                 your promises
                                            to bits & pieces-
                                    traumatizing my 
                                                        (v)
                                                         (e)
                                                          (r)
                                                          (t)
                                                           (e)
                                                          (b)
                                                           (r)
                                                         (a)
                                                          (e)

                                                 But
                                           your vineyard—-
                                     still continues to breathe;
                                           feeding
                                        my dry lungs
                                            back
                                               to
                                                  life.
                            (You’ll always be a part of me-
                                      growing,
                                          breathing,
                                             stinging.)