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"accept who you are;
and revel in it."
We cry

colincakes:

i dont chase after men but if he has tattoos and muscles a bitch just might power walk

buttonpoetry:

Ken Arkind - “God Box” (CUPSI 2014)

"Could you make this wheelchair feel like my father’s shoulders? Invent a makeup that prevents the bruises, instead of just covering them up?"

A haunting, powerful performance from the Penmanship Books Reading at CUPSI 2014. Buy Ken’s book here.

euo:

“High school’s your prime suffering years. You don’t get better suffering than that! ”
Little Miss Sunshine (2006) dir. Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris
"1.)my stretch marks are rivers that no one has traveled.

2.) you told me it was such a shame. that if you could love a floating head, we would be soul-mates. I punched you in the mouth.

3.) I have forgiven the callused hands of every person who has ever tried to love me.

4.) I am not a map, I am a scrapbook. Everything I am is everywhere you have been. Come back when you want to remember.

5.) Sharp edges cut. I prefer the steady ache of a bruise.

6.) When they ask me how I learned love, I will say I started with my head and ended at my feet.

7.) I have tried disappearing and it hurts. It hurts.

"
written by Why do I love my body? Because it is mine | Caitlyn Siehl (via vamoose)
"Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly."
written by Franz Kafka (via purplebuddhaproject)
you’re welcome for the shit-war paint i will slap onto your face. and, in case you were wondering, i will be accepting advanced thank yous in the form of muffin baskets, barnes and noble gift cards and microsoft points. (straight fuckin’ through the loneliness)

calveropoetry:


I’m gonna do you
a favor.

I’m gonna smear shit
on my hand,

    alllllllll fuckin’ over
    my hand,

in which case I will proceed
in slapping you
across your face
with my shit-covered
hand.

And the shit I smack
onto your face
will be the greatest thing
that ever happened
to you.

It will feel like
a spiritual raise.

A spiritual raise
made outta shit
slapped across your face.

And the fresh shit
slapped across your face
will be the war paint
you will wear
in the much needed
and long overdue process
of you
finally un-murdering
yourself
after, unknowingly,
having spent your whole life
silently murdering
your most beautiful impulses,
    slaughtering them
    like spiritual calves,
in order to fit in
with groups of mass peoples.

The shit-war paint
will intimidate and scare
every person
you meet.

It will silently
scream war cries like,
    Hi-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI,
            howwwww-AH-heyyy-EEEEEEEEEEEE!
because you will be
at war.

At war
with the world.

At war
with your murdered
self.

People
will walk past you
on the streets
and have thoughts like,
    What… the… fuck?

Does that dude really have
shit-war paint
on his face?

I better leave him
alone…

If he’s crazy enough
to wear shit-war paint
on his face
who knows what other
kinda crazy shit
he’s capable of…

And the world    will
leave you alone
because it will be scared
of you,

because it will not understand
you
and your shit-war painted
face.

It will not understand
your war.

And the shit-war painted
induced loneliness
will hurt
at first
but,
    ultimately,
it will be the best thing
that ever happened
to you.

Because the only way
to begin the long,
overdue process
of learning how
to un-murder yourself
is through
loneliness.

Not over it.
Not under it.
Not around it.

Through it.

Straight
fuckin’
through
the loneliness.

And so you’ll do
all the lonely things
that lonely people do
while in the process of going
straight
fuckin’
through
the loneliness.

You’ll count
the empty jugs of wine
all around you
in the voice of The Count
from Sesame Street
inside your head…

Vun!!!
    Vun empty jug
    of vine!
        AH-AH-AH!
Two!!!
    TWOOOOOOOO empty jugs
    of vine!
        AH-AH-AHHH!

You will begin watching
weird-ass fetish porn
in order to spice up
your masturbating
as you feel Her
combing her hair
2,000 light years away
from you.

You will sit in McDonald’s
all alone
for a six hour period
of time and,
    around the fourth hour
    or so
    of sitting in McDonald’s
    all alone,
you’ll begin swinging
an imaginary trident
at some hipster-looking guy’s head
as he eats his McDonald’s
salad.
You’ll make
    WHOOSH! noises
each time the trident
swings by his face
always coming up just centimeters short
of smashing off
the hipster-looking guy’s
nose.

    This dude has no idea
how close he just came
to having his nose
smashed right off his face
by a fuckin’ trident,
    you’ll say to yourself.
He doesn’t even know.
    He doesn’t… even… know!
    
And then, one day,
    after having done
all these lonely,
           lonely,
                 lonely things,
you’ll wake up and be all like,

    No shit…

        I’m through…

and you will be
on the other side
of the loneliness.

And you’ll roll outta bed
and finally look at your warrior-self
in the mirror,
    you
    with your shit-war paint
    still smeared all across
    your face,
        dried up and crusted
        and gross
        and slowly eating itself
        into your skin,
            making itself a physical part
            of you,
and you’ll think
in a really gruff and macho
tone of voice,
    I’m just glad
    s/he’s on our side…

You will finally be
on your own
side.

Your own side

and not
theirs.

You will have
finally
un-murdered
your true self.

From here on out
you will progressively regress
into a childlike state
of living
where you do things
simply because you enjoy
doing them
and where you don’t worry about
what other people think
about you
when you do these things.

You will do these things
simply because doing them
makes you happy
and because you are a lonely adult
with shit-war paint
on your face
that the world doesn’t understand,
    or wanna understand,
and
    so
        you might as well do
whatever it is
that makes you happy.

You will understand
that in order to fit in
with large masses of people
you need to degrade yourself
into a lower, generic
form of yourself.
That you need to think on
the same level
that the group does.
    Talk about the same
    stupid shit
    that they do.
That you have to surrender
your free mind
to a group way of thinking
because,
    if you think too far
    outside of the group
    too often,
then you will remove yourself
from the group.

The shit-war paint
will grow hands and undress you
from the cleaned-up
citizen
you murdered yourself
into being
and allow you to finally
run around bare-ass naked
like the little kid
you used to be.

You will see the world
through the unbiased,
truth-seeking eyes
of a child.

You will hear the silence
that comes along
with having gone
straight
fuckin’
through
the loneliness
and, because of this silence,
you will hear the violence
rioting in the streets
of your heart.

    (They have violence
rioting in the streets
of their hearts
too
but they’re incapable
of hearing it
because they’re too busy watching/
talking about Teen Mom
and 16 & Pregnant
and Duck Dynasty
and The Super Bowl
in order to hear it.)

You will be
an individual.

You will be
“you.”

And “you”
is who you need
to be.

“You”
and not “everyone
else.”

It’s no wonder
I feel so alone
all the time.

I’ve been looking at
these murdered faces
for wayyyyy too long now
 
and some days
I don’t know whether to hike up
my skinny jeans
and go on
or to just throw myself in front of a speeding bus
because these people
with murdered faces
aren not my people

and the older I get
the more I only prove
to myself
that there’s nothing here
    for me
on this planet,

    nothing but this one, exact, same
universal person
I’m supposed to love

but can’t

and who I don’t
wanna.

And I’m just
so tired
of it…

…I’m so tired of looking at
all of these murdered faces
without shit war paint
on them.

I’m so tired
of feeling alone
because the rest of the world
is so terrorized
by the idea
of being alone.


© Calvero 2014

"Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting"
written by Haruki Murakami (via parkyvng)
nevver:

Lisa Congdon