A foggy sunrise

explore-blog:

Faulkner was a postmaster, Kafka an insurance agent, Brontë a governess. The day jobs of famous authors.

I always marvel the fact not every author was always an author.

(Source : , via lettersforburning)

penniesinthewell:

When I wake up alone 
The desk edged against the bed
My only night time lover
Is made of wood
The ache in my back
From yesterday’s struggle  
Reminds me why I hold you  
And the frigid tile floors
Are the only cup coffee my feet
Can afford 

-Jeremy.Morgan

(via vanityrose101)

sharingpoetry:

Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
to revenge myself
against my father, not
for what he was—
for what I was: from the beginning of time,
in childhood, I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved.

(source; submitted by shriven)

criminallyinnocent:

Here is a Georgia State Trooper in riot gear at a KKK protest in a north Georgia city back in the 80s. The Trooper is black. Standing in front of him and touching his shield is a curious little boy dressed in a Klan hood and robe. I have stared at this picture and wondered what must have been going through that Trooper’s mind. Before the Trooper is an innocent child who is being taught to hate him because of the color of his skin. The child doesn’t understand what he is being taught, and at this point he doesn’t seem to care. Like any other child his curiosity takes hold and he wants to explore this new thing that this man is holding probably because he can see his reflection in it and that’s a neat thing and he wants to check it out. In this picture I see innocence mixed with hate, the irony of a black man protecting the right of white people to assemble in protest against him, temperance in the face of ignorance, and hope that racism can be broken because this young boy may remember that a black man smiled at him once and he didn’t seem so bad after all.

this says so much

(via theultimatejeremy)

23rd-block:

Calvin and Hobbes on art-making. Comics by Bill Watterson

(via lettersinblackandblue)

(via screaming-praises)

Going to the Dallas Arboretum today with my family to check out a Chihuly glass sculpture exhibit. I’m quite frank to say that this is exciting.

Also, I heard my mom’s making blueberry waffles too. This will be a spectacular day.

I wonder if the great
Elected eagle knows love?
The kind of love like oxygen,
An oxygen you would refuse
Unless it draped across your neck
With the pleasant smell of orchids
Opening in bloom?

And I wonder if such a majestic
Could know anything so peasant,
Like a free fire ringed with friends,
Would it then comprehend the chill
Left by its withdraw?

Would the great Elected eagle
Know the difference between
A tear and the falling rain?
Or would the two blend together
As both which happen against our
Any say or do?

And I cannot help but think that
Yes! Of course! From one’s very birth!
Would come forth their reply.
But when I felt a listless chilled withdraw.
I couldn’t keep the tears from dancing
With the rain. When the orchid blooms
finally left my grasp.

Were I anymore closer to the Earth
Than those soulless streaking angels, 
Who disappear cross the nighttime sky,
And play the blessed wish found
In lovers’ softened ivy clutch?

-Jeremy.Morgan

I don’t usually post videos, but someone sent me this a long time ago and I really enjoy it. It’s a poet reciting his poem “Thinking about you” for a competition.

I have good days that still do nothing more than coat the filthy fact of who I am.