Sometimes I feel that I am the bravest person who walks this earth.

Other times I feel that I am the most afraid, and the weakest.


The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - Eliot


Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

   In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

   The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

   And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

   In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

   And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin - 
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

   For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
   So how should I presume?

   And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
   And how should I presume?

   And I have known the arms already, known them all -
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
   And should I then presume?
   And how should I begin?

   Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

   I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

   And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

   And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" -
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
   Should say: "That is not what I meant at all."
   That is not it, at all.

   And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor - 
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
   "That is not it at all,
   That is not what I meant, at all."

   No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.

   I grow old ... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

   Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

   I do not think that they will sing to me.

   I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Aftermath of Silence


I know what it’s like to die

My heart has skipped and stopped
and danced around in puddles
and skidded in the Sandy grounds

The fall, the moment
I’m no longer standing
and not yet on the ground,
is the only part I don’t know

The others though,
they don’t know death

They still sleep,
immortal for the time being

They’ll have that shocked look
(you know the one)
when the bullet hits,
act like they’re surprised
something like this
could happen

Something like this
could happen

I’ll laugh
and shake my head a little
once I’m on the floor
because at least I’ll be
expecting it



we are


a generation
obsessed with
the birth of
synchronized mouths
and the suicide of
giving a fuck

we groupthink
and slaughter the

our souls
so we can
save on gas

the bus allows
for more opinions
to be drowned
into a drone

and we like our
chances of
making it
as one bullet
in a massacre

(via toreethewriter)



Emergency Planning


I walk into each classroom

I feel the vibes, feel for stirring

I listen for elevated heartbeats or

hearts too ready

I memorize the angles of the exit signs,

the push or pull and the biased doors

The seats fold up and that isn’t good

What will I do about that?

I look at the faces sitting around me -

They’re beautiful

I wonder if we’ll save each other or

if we’re past that

(via toreethewriter)




My mom doesn’t know it yet
but I plan on being the hero
when the mass shootings come to town


Peter Pan


You affect me
- or infect me -
I’m not sure which
since your accent is ambiguous

I feel colors when you tease me
but I lose humans when you criticize me
and I like my humans too much
to appreciate that

(Though I do purge equations and 1 + 1s
when you encourage me
to paint myself like the wind
so that’s a plus)

Your tattoos rub off on me
when I sweat into you
I use the stolen ink to kill you
over and over again
in this story that I can’t get
grammatically correct

I recite the number of splashes in your eyes
when I dip my hands in bleach
you fly
you fly
in between the vowels on my lips

You hover behind my poems
like a child too shy to reply,
too scared to take a -

No - I want to have you
as any reasonable human
can have another
but you would ruin my reputation
as the one who lives through
words string strange strung together

And I cannot afford to buy
such a vintage book





Did you know that
my wrists smile when I see you?

I run to shallow crevices
trying to jam vulnerabilities inside,
but they spill out every time
your name is mentioned,
ready to fly to you
and be enveloped by your wings

All this talk about birds
makes me feel small,
like there’s a whole world out there
ready to capture me at any moment,
whether by picture or car window

You make me want to give in

You make me want to open my skin
and show you all the veins that
I’ve been braiding, kneading, preparing
as a noose (to help me keep control)

But my wrists smile when I see you
and they want to turn a noose into a lasso
so I can learn not to pull so hard



The Education


Before my education,
I was still an over-thinker
but I could always find a reason for
drinking you down into my stomach
and leaving you there awhile to
flounder about in my sloppy dinner contents
and think about your actions

But now I can’t find a reason
that outweighs all of the
alcoholic calories and liver warnings,
so you just sit there in my head,
tapping on the glass occasionally
to make sure that I don’t forget to feed you

I have learned Latin and I have learned
that learning Latin is absolutely useless
unless, of course, you’re writing a resume,
in which case you better put that shit in bold

I have learned Latin
I still won’t get the job though
so perhaps I could use my Latin skills
to teach my next lover how to love me
better than you did

You see, the word ‘cum’ is Latin for ‘with’
(Repeat with me: with…with…..WITH)
Yes, it’s a fact, this proves the Romans really did
know a thing or two about how to love each other

Now I can write a detailed essay on
the factors that drive people to hurt themselves
(and others),
but I still get lost for words when I rehearse
looking into your eyes and
telling you that you’re hurting yourself

YOU are hurting yourself
You are hurting yourself
You are hurting me

Giving speeches still terrifies me,
(especially after that time
I sweat through my shoes
and everybody looked at
the puddle around my feet
and assumed that I peed),
but my education taught me tricks
to keep the sweat inside

It did not teach me, however,
how to get through to you
how to get used to you
how to let myself love you

So, in conclusion,
it is useless



From an Alien


Why you had not heard from me before now and why you will not hear from me again

Little humans

With your
fists up
guns out
tongues hot

Swarming the
intersection of
skin shade
faith taste

Licking your lips
for a soft spot
along the throat

you think
is a myth

(via toreethewriter)





Now I got you in my space
I won’t let go of you (never)
Got you shackled in my embrace
I’m latching on to you (never)

Subtle. Seemingly harmless. But feeding the fire nonetheless. These lyrics are being soulfully sung across countless radio stations right now. I’ll even admit that I’m pretty addicted to this song. But once I started listening to the lyrics, I got uncomfortable. I started getting a guilty feeling. Now you’ve got me? You won’t let go of me? You got me shackled? Okaaay…am I a human being or your slave? Or do you not see the difference?

Some may feel that I’m totally blowing this out of proportion, but am I really? This song is insanely popular right now, and as far as I know, no one seems concerned about the lyrics (correct me if I’m wrong). When ‘Blurred Lines’ hit the radio stations, we were all over that. So why not this song? Maybe it’s because we see this as a natural way for a man in love to behave, to feel. And isn’t that the problem here? The man in this song has basically cornered a woman and is refusing to let her go. So why aren’t we doing anything about it?


How is everyone doing? If you’re looking for someone to talk to, I’m always here.

I thought I’d update my lovely followers on what I’ve been up to. Well, right now I am extremely bored but too tired to do anything. I’m cat-sitting right now and the cats are off doing their own thing at the moment. I’ve just graduated from college with a B.A. in Sociology and I’m doing 2 internships. I’m playing soccer 3 times a week but I’ve had a swollen ankle for a good 2 months now and that probably won’t change anytime soon due to my playing 3 times a week.

I feel as if I’ve grown immensely within the past year and especially within the last few months. I have better control over my anxiety now. I speak up more. I back down less. I go out and do things I want to do. I’m improving. And I’m really excited about that. And I really wish I could find a way to get back into a writing routine. Hopefully soon. I’ve been reading some very inspiring work lately. Inspire me?




Today, Security camera clips that make the news usually show bad things, but here, Coke decided to “look at the world a little differently” in this heartwarming viral video. People stealing kisses, harmless soldiers, music addicts, honest pickpockets and potato chip dealers. Love, Attacks of friendship, friendly gangs and kindness. Unexpected firemen, rebels with a cause and peaceful warriors. A lot of crazy people, and a few heroes. 

I love this so much

(via howlingfury)



Always remember that women who call themselves feminists will be accused so many times of being man-haters, but when a man kills women just for being women, he is called mentally unwell, and a madman rather than a woman-hater or misogynist. 

(via live-love-be-fearless)


They won’t remember the names of the victims, but they’ll sure remember his.

We have made violence into a media phenomenon where we will revere those who cause chaos. It takes work and dedication to be famous unless you have the strength to pick up a weapon. You ask a kid who shot JFK and they’ll sprout conspiracy theories about Lee Harvey Oswald, but you ask them what JFK even stood for and they won’t be able to respond. We don’t erase the right ones: we remember Ted Bundy but can’t name his victims. It’s broken and backwards and we reward violence with exultation instead of making sure their name is forgotten.

A man has killed seven human beings and already people are flocking to view the video he made on why he did it. His manifesto is already being passed around the internet. He is already hero status to certain kinds of lowlife scum.

And I won’t remember him. I refuse to learn his name. I refuse to watch his rant on why anyone would deserve to die and I refuse to discuss who he used to be or all the warning signs we didn’t see or what his favorite activities were. I’d much rather learn about the victims. I will not make him my celebrity. I will not let him be a part of history.

I am sorry for us today. I am sorry for every person who is scared to be called a feminist because it might result in death. I am sorry for all of us who just want to live our lives without being a victim. I am sorry that survival is considered beating the odds. I am sorry for the keys between my fingers and the glances behind me and the extra layers just in case and the heavy purse and the fighting stance and every method I have of preparing myself for the war we’re not allowed to talk about - I am sorry they do not make us that safe, that there is nowhere we can be safe unless it is alone. I am sorry for every girl who is blaming herself for the death of seven others just because she turned down a boy. I am sorry that she thinks she is guilty when there is nothing to feel guilty for.

I am sorry for the people who have lived such closed and restricted lives that they think rejection is the worst possible fate a person can go through. I am sorry for every boy who thinks that unless he loses his virginity, he’s not worthy. I’m sorry for every man suffering from mental health issues who is yet again watching as he is labeled a danger to society. I’m sorry that the quickest way we have to excuse these people is to call them crazy. I’m sorry that our society has structured it so you cannot run from what these people do. I’m sorry for every boy who likes holding hands and has a quiet soul and just wants to plant gardens and I’m sorry that they’ll tell you, “A man needs sex and violence,” I’m sorry that they’d lie to you like that. I’m sorry that if you’re a man, your shadow smells like a graveyard of our bodies. I’m sorry you’ll feel defensive because you don’t want to be known as one of them - I’m even more sorry that the more I hear “he was just so normal and such a nice guy,” the less likely I am to be trusting of you. I’m sorry that murderers don’t carry around large signs warning me off, I’m sorry that there is no way for me to determine if you’re cruel or not. I wish there was. It would save me a good deal of effort.

I am sorry for us. I am sorry for the way we feel safe for a moment only to have the ground wrenched out from under us. I am sorry how they will make this another pointless debate about gun restriction. I’m sorry for the fear every college girl suddenly feels as she sees the reactions - “he’s a hero,” “this is why every man deserves a pity lay,” “now maybe you understand the pain of the friendzone” - because for some reason, even though girls rejected a boy who would become a murderer, it’s still somehow their fault instead of a symbol of how disgusting he was. I’m sorry that girls like me want to be strong but can’t be because we’re small or quiet or filled with panic. I’m sorry that we have ways to get around turning guys down because we’re terrified of what will happen. I’m sorry that we watch while we’re told that men are like animals and will turn wild if we don’t wear the right clothes, if we don’t say the right words, if we don’t let them use their fists to tear apart this world - but at the same time, we’re told that men are the only ones fit to be leaders. I am sorry we have been raised as rainbow fish surrounded by sharks and then are told we are imagining the world wanting to swallow us. I am sorry that our skin smells of blood, that our backs are creaking with the weight of the stories we hear, I am sorry we live as whispers passed between each other, I am sorry the scars so often go unnoticed. I am sorry we will be silenced. I am sorry this poem will mean nothing in two day’s time because his actions will still ring louder than any response we could have. I am sorry we have to watch as he is defended. I am so, so, so sorry, and there is no way to fix it. People are proud of hating feminism. People are proud of a murderer. People are proud of what he did.

I am sorry for us today. I am sorry, and we are not safe.

Rest in peace. None of you deserved this. /// r.i.d
(via inkskinned)


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