We Really Need Camps For Adults. None Of The Serious Stuff. … I Think We Have A Fun Deficit In America.

I have been here and walked along the river. Beautiful city!!

Bern, Switzerland (by Nomadic Vision Photography)

I am sick with feeling, and sick with greed This warmth inside, my heart, it needs It needs and wants and yearns and pines I’m grossly ill, right to my insides An involuntary glutton, for this intrusive drug A drought that some would say was love But I know better, yes, I do This feeling inside does not include: –Include the flaws, include the faults Include the pain, or nasty insults The tears that my pillow will soak The late, dark nights I stay up and mope– To hear a knock on my open door To await a kiss to make lips’ sore There is no love to cause some joy It’s only a plot, a sick smart ploy To win some land, property to keep To share with friends, a rumor to leak So lock the heart shut, and hide the key far So no one may touch, or move, or mar But late at night, when all must sleep My eyes stay awake, with dreams to reap To dream of things that live and feed Of the love that I so desperately need

Leilah Ali, The Truth About Love (via wnq-writers)

What is love?

I know you don’t exactly have a way with words that you couldn’t possibly understand the storm that washed the thoughts from my mind or the distraction of worrying about my cheeks blushing when you lean in to whisper when there is no one within earshot i can’t possibly express on paper that feeling of taking a breath, of the moment in suspension right before you lose your balance that burns within my stomach when I catch you looking at me like that without warning there are so many words in the english language and no matter how many times I describe the warmth of your fingers or the fluster of nothing on my lips i cannot fathom us into poetry i am a poet and you do not make sense to me I cannot describe you as a blooming flower, unfurling to reveal the deepest parts of yourself because you would only laugh at that I cannot describe you in hyperboles or words or metaphors and I am a poet so that makes me want to scream my throat raw and rip apart the paper and words that flood from my fingertips messily that is the only way i can describe us and somewhat feel satisfied in the way I always seek satisfaction in words to write poetry about us is to write in a dead language to write poetry about us is the frustration in watching you expose the bruises on your jaw and cling onto your dignity while you whisper how reckless you’ve been into my shoulder I cannot bandage your pride; I cannot compose you into a sonnet I can write every delicate detail of drowning in a golden clawed bathtub or sitting in sunlight with flowers woven behind my ears but the truth is that each image i conjure isn’t simple enough because we are not an epic simile and your hands are not actually fire burning at my cheeks they are just hands I can write about myself I can condense myself into a neat placement of words but you I cannot describe you even if I spoke in hieroglyphics or braille I was once told that despite how beautiful, language is flawed And I did not believe that one bit Until you looked at me with an expression That I could not find a metaphor for you are strictly tangible, only flesh and crooked front teeth and that is why my heart will soon fracture for I can either write us onto paper or I can silently love you

ochredeity, ”To the boy I love”  (via wordsnquotes)

Words cannot describe.

#feminist

Oscar Wilde said that if you know what you want to be, then you inevitably become it - that is your punishment, but if you never know, then you can be anything. There is a truth to that. We are not nouns, we are verbs. I am not a thing - an actor, a writer - I am a person who does things - I write, I act - and I never know what I am going to do next. I think you can be imprisoned if you think of yourself as a noun.

Stephen Fry (via wordsnquotes)

Truth!! Just be you, the constantly changing you!

I need words that mean more than they mean, words not just with height and width, but depth and weight and, and other dimensions that I cannot even name

Lois McMaster Bujold (via wordsnquotes)

You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Maya Angelou, “Still I Rise” (via wordsnquotes)

#mayaangelou #rise

Banksy’s response to the Charlie Hebdo murders 

via