Hi, I request you all to take out few minutes and watch this documentary and share it as much as possible. I made a post about it few hours back and i feel it needs a lot more share than it currently has.
Link to the post and documentary—-> CLICK HERE
Thanks and Love
Fidel
did you know blog
(via did-you-kno)
Whether it be fanfiction, original stories, drabbles, songs, poems, books, or anything that has to do with creative words, then reblog. Let’s gather all the writers of Tumblr together.
I don’t normally reblog, but this is an exception.
(Source: insaneandproudofit, via fyeahnanowrimo)
My inner walls
tremble;
a cathedral
that feels too small.
You pluck a heartstring
with your index finger.
A broken instrument
whimpers,
resounding
within the
chamber
of my heart.
By me (Elise Addlem)
When I want to see my reflection
I don’t look to a mirror,
I look to the night sky.
She is more truthful
than any captured essence
of mere flesh.
By me.
Some days I could hold a
whole ocean of tears
in my two cupped hands. On others
a single drop of the world’s
violations is too much.
On these days I think
happiness is something
somebody invented
to make us all feel
worse about ourselves.
By me.
Do you remember how to laugh?
I mean really laugh.
Is it that you’ve forgotten,
or that you are too afraid of the violent
quake it would create
if you were to disrupt the sea within you,
to enter into any different kind of mood
than the one you have been resting
unpeacefully in for years?
Are you afraid that happiness is a mistake,
and when it leaves you will break
into more pieces that you’re already in?
I have watched you grow thin,
and if I could have one wish for you
it would be that you would remember
that there is more than one way to be fed.
I want to see you bring
laughter to its knees,
to have its knees bleed
under the weight of what your disease
can do, to even the most whole of things.
Laughter should look up to you like a god,
like you are the sky
under which all of us are
lucky enough to lie.
If laughter must die,
let it be not because you were
too afraid to let it live,
but because you used it all up,
since were too afraid to let it die.
By Elise Addlem.
Would it be ok if you could mend
the broken thread
that tied together my memories tapestry
from now to the place in my head
when hoping was only waiting
and I could rest for hours between two notes
without even hesitating
because there was always enough time?
Can you remind
me that I am blessed
to be able to undress
my thoughts so slowly,
and that it is not a lowly
character flaw that I can’t seem to
push past, push through,
to get to a more human
form that is more suited
to this day and age,
instead of pouring naked words
onto a plank page,
day after day,
in the hope that it will come to something?
A poem by me (Elise Addlem)
All the spaces in between
the ways things were and are
have grown in to vast canyons from
quakes within my very being.
I think I am more those
spaces, than the places they divide.
Time wanders in when it is least expected,
like a unwanted dinner-guest
who turns up drunk and abusive,
seeming to exist only to re-affirm the
notion that a quiet hour
cannot exist.
Murderous, harrowing,
Beastly,
the present comes at me, its face
now benevolent, now violent.
The moon in the twilight of every mistake will not
snuff out,
When all I asked for was
Blackness
to curl itself around me
And suffocate the air.
But blackness is not a place;
it is the absence of light.
A non-place.
I want to crawl back into the skin of
Who I was,
But that was not a place either.
I was a non-place.
Still, it is where I always begin.
I must go through so many doors and tunnels in my mind
before I can come out to greet the day.
A poem by me (Elise Addlem)
I’m trying to climb on the backs of
revolutionaries who scream at the sky,
the ground, and practically every book
they read:
Are you the prophet?
Everyone needs a reason to bleed.
To need.
Without it we’ll go blind.
Some already have,
when there’s no plan,
only existence,
only the insistence
that it is enough.
This is what we’ve come to,
after millions of years:
existence- in and of itself-
Is all.
But how can I fall in love
with the sky above
when they say the sky above
doesn’t love me back?
I’m lying on the train tracks
just to hear the whistle blow,
so I can feel my heart grow
into something close to real
and then feel
the wheel of my mind explode
with the anticipation of the divine
that I find
inside me when I feel.
I mean really feel.
Some things are real.
I’ve been rusted in the rain
by the profane
notion that my heart is
just a ticking time bomb
and that to belong
is to cease to feel,
because to feel is to steal
sensations from a time and
place that no longer exist.
Well I’m gonna steal all the moments
I can that exist
out of time.
Coz if there’s on things that’s divine,
It’s the mind
when it’s given a reason
to bleed.
A poem by me (Elise Addlem)
We always said we’d see orchestras.
Well we didn’t do that,
but I did hear the symphony of your heartbeat
as it played its perfect song
only inches above my trembling limbs
in the moment that was the culmination
of all my past selves and
future selves too. The moment when
time met itself at its center
and felt its own heartbeat.
in that moment all the other
orchestras in the world couldn’t matter.
A poem by me (Elise Addlem)
