50% Enchanted Read the Printed Word! Poems, Prose, and Song

That’s actually some really good advice. Something to heed when I go off to college. 

That’s actually some really good advice. Something to heed when I go off to college. 

Please don’t, above all,
plant me in your heart.

I grow too quick.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets To Orpheus (via fassadenmensch)

(via wastedondreaming)

What’s meant to be will always find a way.
Trisha Yearwood

I slipped a note under your bedroom door
Come out
See the sunshine
Breathe the air
Stop trying to drown yourself
In lies and bottles.
You’re worth more than that
Than what some cheap whore did to mess you up
Than who your parents turned out to be
Than who your friends are behind your back
So at least try to save yourself.

[I cut right to the chase now
If they don’t listen, they don’t listen.
But I’ll still try to save them.]

Earlier days, when I was just starting out,
I thought that I could save everyone
I made it my business to do so,
Their lives, their welfare,
It was on me.

At least that’s what I told myself.

But it wasn’t,
And I can’t stop
The stones from rolling down the hills, picking up speed along the way, until it hits the bottom

I’m tired of being Sisyphus,
Pushing and pulling each boulder to the top
Only to have it roll down the next day.

You have to try
You have to want to get better
You have to want to save yourself
Know that you are worth saving
That you deserve happiness
Don’t let the guilt burn through you like acid eating at your skin

I wish you’d be straight with me, for once

Everyone feels the same things, just in different ways

You aren’t alone, you’re never alone
You need to know that, have it etched inside your mind when you feel like you’re the only one going through the pain

You’ll get through it.
It’ll get better.
It always does.

If I’m annoying you,
I want you to tell me so.
I don’t want to feel like
I’m overstepping my boundaries
I’m getting too close
I’m revealing too much

I don’t want to be
With someone who doesn’t care
(Not that anyone will)
I won’t be a fool.

5:26 pm


there’s a strong craving for ginseng
and a light desire
for your lips
to touch mine.

(via s-emi-colon)

Just a little more.

Small particles fill her lungs and she takes steady, slow breaths.
Her eyes are wide open, the electric blue sizzling, and her mouth is open, as if in a rapturous trance.
In another’s viewpoint, she’s staring dully at nothing in particular.
But in her mind, behind her eyes, visions and glorious spectacles of the divine cosmos are playing out

Endless majesty
Eternal serenity

She thinks she finds lost gods in her head, whispering
The ancient ones, worshipped and adored, now dust and buried under dead civilizations and monuments
They used to mean something!
People poured their hearts and souls and blood and tears to them, and they have to mean something.
Human sacrifices, child virgins, human hearts, doves and goats and deer and sheep and pigs and lambs,
Slaughtered upon their stone altars, reddest blood flowing down.
She refuses to let go of the millions of dead people who died in vain, believing in false hopes or false idols.
She hears the restless spirits, crawling and tapping on windowsills of the living, some tied to an unfinished act, some wanting revenge, some just lost, scared, forgotten.
Reunites with previous incarnations—
Her selves that were and are and are yet to be.
She’s reaching out, out of her head and out of her mind
Out of her body, out of her soul
To the earth, to the universe, to the spirits, to the past and present and future, to the gods and to heaven
And she thinks she can take it
Pull me out of this world, she whispers
Bring me to a place of wonder and adventure and everlasting life
Without pain or sadness or judgment
With each breath, she gets closer and closer
To the Truth, to Life—
To the true out of body experiences she desires
In which she won’t ever return to her body
She will be a free spirit, roaming space and time
Nothing to hold her back.
Her cigarette stub falls to the floor, she mindlessly stomps it out.
She pulls another cigarette out of its box, lights it, and brings it to her withered, cracked lips.
Just a little bit more, she thinks.
Just a little more and I’ll be there
With the choirs of angels
With the fairies and nymphs
With the ghosts and ghost-gods and dead heroes
Just one more breath can take me there.

A story about stories.

The cars pass by, remembering and forgetting who I am in split seconds
The runners come in pairs, singles, and I wonder if they’re happy at where they are in their lives
Such close proximity, it feels like
I’m sitting by a rumbling airport landing ground
The library on the right is empty,
I’m here alone.
My books and chipper radio music on Pandora and the cool breeze
Make me feel so calm.
I hope no one can hear me humming a few notes of my favorite songs
A circle of cigarettes line the earth by where I am sitting
I like to imagine the smoker was reading Kafka on this very stone bench.
A little girl walks by with her mother,
Dressed in a flowery pink dress with satin sleeves.
I hope she gets to go to a birthday celebration today. Maybe it’s her own.
She lingers by the grass and plucks a white daisy.
Darling, don’t cry just because the daisies are withering, their white petals curling up into each other
Cars pull into the penumbra parking lot, people walk out and drop their books in the metal box.
What did you read?
What did you discover?
Did you like it?
I hope you did.
Bikers pass, so quickly, determined, and I wonder where they need to be right now.
Little sparrow, I wish you stayed a while longer so I could remember the intricate details on your feathers,
But I’m glad you have someone important to you.
Dogs don’t notice me as they walk past with their owners, but it’s okay that I can admire your cuteness in secret.
The Grannie riding the bike, I wish I could be as healthy and happy as you when I am wrinkled and white-haired
Birds, I hope your chirping never ends.
The grass around me is trampled ruthlessly but it still grows, sideways and backwards
I hope to have that sort of flexibility and optimism in my life
The clouds are a blur of pure white and the sun has not yet broken through,
But he always does.
The sky is a blank canvas, with trees barely touching
The streetlights are always green, there is no traffic
I like that nothing ever needs to stop.
I should get back to my book
Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell, and find
meaning in little things again later.


Feathers mistaken for snow,
whispers of mockingbirds
circling with the wrong crowds.
When you want to run away,
won’t you let me know?

— k.g

What I Like (12/18/2013)


I like beautiful things.

But you see,
I have a different meaning
Of “things” than you.

I like beautiful music,
Beautiful sound,
And beautiful souls,
Beauty resounds.

I like beautiful ideas,
And beautiful thoughts - 
Beautiful ponderings,
Beautifully wrought.

But most of all
I like beautiful people.
People of sound and soul and thought.
I like beautiful layers,
All coming together to be sought.


by writtennotions



Jon Gourley's notes SFAI’s 2012 MFA Exhibition

this is good



Jon Gourley's notes
SFAI’s 2012 MFA Exhibition

this is good

(via coffeepeople)