Star Craving Mad

"We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion.And medicine, law, business, engineering - these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love - these are what we stay alive for."

— Dead Poets Society (via breathings-of-your-heart)

(via eimaskh)

"You love me?
Here you are saying these beautiful words again.
Let me tell you something:
All this time, all these years,
I’ve been caressed by your diction,
entrenched by your eloquence,
ensnared in a symphony of courtly compliments,
too engrossed to realize that
it wasn’t my hands you wanted to hold,
but those of the clock.
Our lips were once synchronized in style, and
the lines of your palms are most certainly no strangers to mine,
but although my hands may be comforting,
they will never move backwards,
they will never be the ones who first made your pupils dilate,
who played your movie to the millisecond before the climax,
hit pause, and fled for eternity,
locking you up
all
those
years
ago.
Your tears are acidic, rusted now; it’s becoming contagious
and I’ll be honest..I’m fed up.
Because I KNOW that while my ears are at your mercy,
you’re not talking to me,
but through me,
to a her who isn’t listening.
It appears that my love is your love is her heart,
which is just as frigid and inhospitable as this
hell-crafted triangular shadow I’ve been standing in all this time,
foolishly basking in the love you gave “me”
while waiting for you to notice ME.
I’m stuck.
Don’t you see it?
All this time
you’ve been courting the wrong person,
and though I may be intelligent enough to recognize it,
I’m not and never will be so evolved,
so coldly brilliant,
to have the skill to stop it.
I love you too."

— “Delilah” - TS Charleston. 

"

As buses love tight-corner turns on the rainy days
As puddles love the walking lonely hearted,
As swimmers love to claim, the ocean in their names
Though most its brilliance is yet to be charted

As one tries to describe the taste of the wind,
They say that love’s as elusive, just as sly
For though the breeze feels nice, its kiss comes at a price
Those who win are only those who cannot die.

Destined to drown in your arms,
but the sea got to me before,
Taken out and tossed, aboard a sandy lover’s cross,
Salt water that relentlessly shocks my eyes
is still less jarring than your picture in my mind.

Cause for all the stories that I’ve heard before
Where feelings mirror youth and fade away
Those who bore me, though they all swore me
I still stand by my faith in what I say

That it sure is something when one is killed,
Blindsided, he does not see it draw near,
Trapped in the game, disappears with his name,
His last words, nobody cared to hear.

And then when one can see it come,
but has no chance in stopping it draw close -
Another number for the news, after ads for cheap booze
His light burns out without a chance of hope.

And it is everything when you see mortality,
every chance to escape the mangled hands of Death,
Rather you find yourself kissing them,
aching for, worshipping them,
finding your home in them instead.

And as we someday find ourselves slipping, too,
into imaginations we don’t yet understand,
in time and all once more, I’ll come knocking at your door,
and I will love you all over again.

— “Love of Mine” - TS Gatz + Elle Charleston.

"

They loved on a deathbed,
rather,
their love was that of a deathbed love.

The chills were reciprocated,
the energies mirrored,
one heart pushed, the other pulled
as the stars crossed and coursed through their veins.
It was a love for memories of
eras they both never experienced,
of words that articulately tingled the tip of the tongue,
of the inexplicable way two hands could possibly
make contact at the palm,
but embrace at the soul.
It was an erased-words love,
one that never quite found the right words to describe itself,
but thrived in the slight smile that existed within
each unworthy word that didn’t quite fit to limit it.

It was a love beyond seasons,
past nostalgia, in between the fingerprints of time -
a deserved love,
one that made sense.
It was an unrational love,
one as provable and strong as faith itself;
mad love,
too wise to be underestimated -
Old enough to have repeatedly held the other
as tight as one can possibly be held,
but young enough to be achingly confused
as to how one can be in this position and somehow know
that the other still isn’t close enough.

They loved on a deathbed, passionate and close.
Rather, their love was on a deathbed, and at that critical moment,
unsurpassably full of all the life a love could ever possibly contain.
Rather, I shall still remain, that their love was that of a deathbed love,
unsurpassably full of all the love a life could ever attain -
a love, protective care and admiration, meant to exist between two kindred spirits, twin minds, wrinkled fingers, and hairs that have watched each others’ colors bloom and fade over a lifetime.
It was a foot-in-the-door-love, radiating all the opportunity to conquer the world together.
It was the type of old-young type of love that almost made it a shame that they had the rest of their healthy, unscripted lives ahead of them.

Almost.

It is the love of two writers,
that flourishes with all the flowers Shakespeare overlooked;
A love that understands by not attempting to.
It is an untamable love, yet their love exclusively,
circumstantial, unrecoverable, and ceaseless,
a love with one heart,
on two paths,
with one heart,
and I will always love you.

— “The Old-Young Writers’ Deathbed Love”  by T.S. Charleston.

"All is an emotional chaos. Poetry and poetry alone has saved my life."

— Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via sheistemporary)