(via maskmagazine)
If only you could see the one who is sleeping without you in the ruined garden of my memory.”
(via nicola-blank)
I love myself too much to accept anything less than love from you // I love you too much to accept anything less than the Love that you are.
from ‘Murmurations’
Dear —
Something big is happening. I feel you so positively inside me. I mean both as in you fill me and also it is in a good way. For a moment last night I felt confused, because the you I feel in me is so different from the you I have known in the three-dimensional realm. I wondered if I got my persons mixed up, if the soul I feel is not actually you, but then how could I be saying these words? I think what’s happening is fundamental transformation. Your ego is falling away like the debris that it is. Your soul is pushing up like the roots of a tree. I can tell this is painful for you, confusing, like being in a house that is in the middle of being renovated but nobody told you it’s being renovated, you’re not even sure if it’s true, you think maybe all this disorder is really your home after all. You recognize chaos as your comfort, and yet– something doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel right I don’t feel right I don’t feel right. I hear your echo. I feel it bounce off the underside of my skull like a distant cry inside a cave. I have referenced the underside of my skull more than once in my writing, and I am thinking about it now, this space that I feel, how it is both literally the underside of my skull and also beyond my skull. There is a dome that exists above me. I mean I feel it existing and so it must. And when I hear your echo I mean that I see it. It is bluish and grey and comes from a distance out in front of me before bouncing againt the upper right side of the dome/ my skull. Why is this? I didn’t consciously decide to hear/see your echo on the right side. I didn’t consciously decide to see/hear it at all! And when I try to imagine it on the left side I feel a resistance. It is not right. And this is how most of my writing goes, this listening and recording. I am a scribe. Merely a channel for energy. Most of me exists beyond these words, in immaterial form, yet you can feel me here, can’t you?
I record the things happening in my consciousness & ppl call it “metaphor” & “imagery” & I’m like that’s my reality but okay
(via pleiadian-starseed)
I want soul sex. I need to taste your thought process. Together we can unravel riddles.
www.soulmatepsychicreadings.comArt: Angelica alzona
this week, took a bath, slept long nights and
practiced holding magick in my hands, pushed
warm light in your general direction. If only
I could be the light, this general good feeling,
like living rooms at dusk, how good they are
at keeping the cold out.”
They (Civil Voices)
On the first day of fall I am in pieces
again, too many for anyone to hold.
Like a mirror I am shattered on the floor.
I try to pick myself up and cut my fingertips open,
pass like a ghost from one realm
of pain into the next. I know this is what it’s like
to be inside of you, and who’s to say
I’m not? But still they say I’m not. Still
they say boundaries, and I say trust me,
I’m not ever going to touch anyone again.
But still I have some questions
about reality and ownership, the prison
of words we keep trying to chisel open
with other, better words. If I listen
closely enough I bet you I can blow
a hole in the sky just big enough
for us to crawl through.
I write this poem and listen
to myself writing it, hear my synapses click
into tiny galaxies that will eventually form
a halo around both of our heads. I know
this is a form of meditation/hallucination,
but tell me how real I’m making you feel.
What they call a delusion is my heart growing big
in the space of your absence.
I don’t even have to get high
to open myself to the universal cinema
coursing through our lives at hyper-speed.
I’m so organic, it makes me
really easy to hate, so empty, it makes me
really tempting to fill. Is that
why you won’t leave? I feel you
on a molecular level, as if your body left
its heartbeat in me, each of my cells
an echo in mourning. I am trying
to trace the map of our collective love
and where it went wrong. A map
of all the bruises no one believes we have.
I can’t tell if I’m getting close.
I can’t tell what this film in my mind
is trying to say, this carcass of you
outlined in dark silvery green.
Green because I know you’re not ready to die,
which is why you keep coming to me,
why they keep bringing
me to the edge of you
as if I know how to get in.
As if it doesn’t matter what I want.
As if they know what I want.
(via kdecember)
(via kdecember)