I am a storyteller: student, actress, poet. Here I write, and collect inspiration. Unless it's cited or in quotations, I wrote it.

Consider that you radiate. At all times. Consider that what you’re feeling right now is rippling outward into a field of is-ness that anyone can dip their oar into. You are felt. You are heard. You are seen. If you were not here, the world would be different. Because of your presence, the universe is expanding.
Danielle LaPorte (via wethinkwedream)

(via wethinkwedream)

Apr 18, 2014 / 11,812 notes
Apr 17, 2014 / 1 note

The Seams on the Waterwings Broke

when the years linger on 
like salt water on my skin
like my hair that holds the wet in for hours
how can I move forward
dreading off the years
as they cling?

I am drenched in the years
and they cling 
so necessary
to my cheeks and my jowls 
pooling directions of time 
in my joints and my toes and my eyes

with mildew breath
do you miss me? how can you forgive
when you don’t want to forget? 
how can you say leave 
when you’ve asked me to stay?

when I’m soaked
and unwilling
god’s has a certain 
a dejected detective
rightwiseness to withsay

Apr 16, 2014 / 2 notes

this year

there is an ache
in the unknowing
and the all too familiar
I have been in the dark
yet you say it is my youth that prevents me from going there
I think 
that I am still there 
and am trying to get out

April was too lonely a month to spend alone. In April, everyone around me looked happy. People would throw their coats off and enjoy each other’s company in the sunshine—talking, playing catch, holding hands. But I was always by myself.
Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via larmoyante)
Apr 16, 2014 / 22,663 notes
Three o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so happy.
Anton Chekhov, About Love and Other Stories (via larmoyante)
Apr 16, 2014 / 3,157 notes
A flower does not think of competing to the flower next to it. It just blooms.
from Zen Shin Talks  (via thatkindofwoman)

(via poemsofthequiet)

Apr 16, 2014 / 247,877 notes
I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
 Sylvia Plath (via handsomepoet)

(via poemsofthequiet)

Apr 16, 2014 / 201,067 notes
Apr 14, 2014 / 728,392 notes

(via lilygirlduh)


witch wife by edna st vincent millay
Apr 14, 2014 / 1,771 notes


witch wife by edna st vincent millay

(via poemsofthequiet)

Apr 13, 2014 / 1 note
Apr 10, 2014 / 66,275 notes

by Kesler Tran
Apr 9, 2014 / 9,794 notes


by Kesler Tran

(via sal-t)

Apr 9, 2014

the babbling heart

It just didn’t seem right
but not that it was wrong
it was just that it was filled 
with a care and a tenderness
so unfitting for a first date
an adoration beyond its time
out of step 
carrying with it 
our bodies in rhythmic rotation 
and then sleep 
fitful mind, frozen body
I froze
with you thrusting in between my thighs

concerned with 

why so much love

why do you care so much
I thought that this should be fun
and dangerous
having sex on a first date unprotected
stupid in it’s excitement
i didn’t want to  
but kind of did
and then we did it


Apr 9, 2014


thats just it
it was nothing 
it was everything
and now its not


Apr 9, 2014

The city self

Some people look up. Some people look down. In the city, there are two ways of surviving. One is by looking down, and the other is by looking up. We survive the city through our choice: of looking up or looking down. Our choosing thus dictates the city we see, and so dictates the city we must survive. For example, one can be looking up and see the pigeons squatting on the Starbucks and rotting neon BMO signs, or look down and see a man wrapped in a dirty sleeping bag with a cardboard sign at his feet that reads “Cold, need food.” Though neither of are pleasant sights both qualify as fundamental cityscapes to those who choose to look up or choose to look down. In what you see you must survive. 

A third way to survive in the city is by aversion. Avert your eyes. Look neither up nor down, but stare at your chewed up finger nails and raw calluses that grip around your tall white Starbucks cup, half full of Pike roast coffee - black - the pristine white lid smeared with your new red lipstick. 

Everyone is the city. The city is alive only in where we look. Everyone’s eyes are the city’s eyes. In what you see the city is and so the city sees itself. The concrete knives that pinch the clotted clouds. The pigeon shit and chewed up gum along the runway for designer shoes. The bright bank signs that hang from the glass armoured phallic monumental towers. The held or fleeting eye contact between one stranger and another. The city lives there too. In everyone’s eyes, the city finds it’s soul.

Your eyes go where the city lives.
You breathe your city breathing you.