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Please, let him be soft. 

I know you made him 
     with gunmetal bones
     and wolf’s teeth.
I know you made him to be
     a warrior
     a soldier
     a hero.

But even gunmetal can warp
and even wolf’s teeth can dull
and I do not want to see him break
the way old and worn and overused things do.

I do not want to see him go up in flames
     the way all heroes end up martyrs.

I know that you will tell me 
that the world needs him.
The world needs his heart
     and his faith
     and his courage
     and his strength
     and his bones and his teeth and his blood and his voice and his–
The world needs anything he will give them.

Damn the world,
     and damn you too.
Damn anyone that ever asked anything of him,
     damn anyone that ever took anything from him,
           damn anyone that ever prayed to his name.
You know that he will give them everything
     until there is nothing left of him
         but the imprint of dust
              where his feet once trod.
You know that he will bear the world like Atlas
    until his shoulders collapse
         and his knees buckle
              and he is crushed by all he used to carry. 

Dear God, 
you have already made an Atlas.
You have already made an Achilles and an Icarus and a Hercules. 
You have already made a sacrificial lamb of your Son.
You have already made so many heroes,
and you can make another again. 
You can have your pick of heroes. 

So please, I beg you–
he is all that I have, 
and you have so many heroes
and the world has so many more. 
Let him be soft, 
and let him be mine.

- Please, let him be happy ( j.p. )
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what if every ancient text was translated in the style of dr. seuss

for example:

“I will not fight the Trojans!” Achilles then said.

“I will not fight them now or when you all are dead!

I won’t fight them at Troy. I won’t fight them at Greece.

I won’t fight them at war. I won’t fight them in peace.

I will not fight them while Agamemnon is king.

Do not try to bribe me- I won’t take your things.

I will not fight the Trojans, not here and not there.

I will not fight the Trojans- not anywhere.”

“You’re abusing our patience!” old Cicero said,

“And if there’s sense in the Senate they’ll soon have you dead!

Are you not alarmed by the people’s alarm?

Don’t you know that your plans will be doing us harm?

What is it you’re doing that I do not know?

Oh the times! Oh the morals! You really must go!

Since wise men must do what is best for the state,

we, the consuls, should kill you before it’s too late.”

Let me sing about arms, let me sing of the man,

Let me sing of Aeneas’s Rome-founding plan!

How he sailed off to Italy, fleeing from Troy,

Escaping the Greeks with his dad and his boy:

He was driven by fate, he was punished by Juno,

He suffered in war—and that’s just the part you know.


Oh my God I love this

@teashoesandhair please

The queen was quite lovely, but still it was true

her son was a minotaur, half bull through and through,

and when her old husband, king Minos, found out,

he cried out aloud, “what the fuck’s this about?

I do not like this half-bull child!

I do not find him meek and mild!

He keeps on eating all my staff!

I think he does it for a laugh!”

The queen was upset by her son’s attitude,

for eating the servants was really quite rude,

and although she still thought that she’d be a good mother,

there still was a risk that he’d eat his own brother.

“I do not like this minotaur!

I’ve never heard of one before!

I do not want him any more!

Let’s build a maze beneath the floor!”

As Minos had asked for, a labyrinth was built

and the minotaur lived there, not stricken with guilt

for the people he ate were now sacrificed there,

and he dined on their flesh without any despair.
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“let the wolf inside you out, girl,
howl your grief to the moon until your voice cracks,
bare your fangs at those who’d dare touch you,
sink your teeth into the flesh of those who’ve harmed you,
show the world you are more than fear itself,
you are the dark magic in the shadows of the night,
no one can touch you,
for you are more than a wolf,
you are death in its sweetest form.”
- and death itself cannot die // k.s. (via worthystevie)
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““Empty your heart of its mortal dream.””
- W.B. Yeats, The Hosting of the Sidhe (via lizthemun)
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A cautionary tale selkies tell of the merfolk, perhaps?
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O rising moon! O Lady moon!
Be you my lover’s sentinel,
You cannot choose but know him well,
For he is shod with purple shoon,
You cannot choose but know my love,
For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,
And he is soft as any dove,
And brown and curly is his hair.

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–Emily Dickinson
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My dad, who is in his 70′s, discovered what slash was and then proceeded to write a sonnet to my mom about it.

One of us.
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Day 17: National Poetry Month
Sea Fever by John Masefield

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“Forgive Me My Salt,” Brenna Twohy.

[Image description: A photo of an opened paperback book against a reddish wood background. The poem on the page facing the camera reads,

“When I Say I Forgive You, Know This
I did not bury the hatchet.
I have the hatchet in my hands.
I am building myself a new house.”]


Mar. 6th, 2017 02:55 am
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Flickering flame worn by sorrow - the dark ever curls at your side
Whispering with power this does not have to happen again- you can
Stop the death and pain; you can be anything - just let yourself feel
Give in to the love that is at the core of your being, jump and be caught
In the arms of the Dark, and change the world (the Litany will cease
And you can rest without reciting even more names each night before bed)
From the time he was thirteen to thirty loss dogged his steps
The star-flame of Force within him burned bright, he chose to step back
Until this one thing too many, chased by the very men he fought to save
Sent by his brother to bring him down - he kills without joy, the mourning
Song in his heart burns, and when his Commander is dead by their hands
(A choice in the end was all the mercy left for the two of them)
He is broken, and the Dark wraps around the shattered remains to reforge
A phoenix with golden eyes - there’s a tremble through the Force
It is the planet of lava and flame - where blood red blade clashes with white
Where the Force’s favourite sons battle once more; the soldiers dare not
Interfere - the ones that tried were lost in that moment - without a gesture
Without a word and not even the light of young lives can reach the void
Of a man broken past all hope - and the Empire begins to crumble though
Vader is alive (he loved him, he would always love him too much)
The seeds of destruction are sown by the one who cared until he broke

@lectorel @deadcatwithaflamethrower
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Guys who complain about the friendzone often don’t care about their female friends’ personal boundaries, forcing their female friends build more walls up. A good cartoon.

- submitted by Gene

why is he tearing down a wall with an axe

i hate it when your put in the friendzone and made to tear down a wall

Mr. Gorbachev…tear down this friendzone

how you gonna draw some shit that makes you look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining and still feel like you’re the victim


“I’m going to wall you up now, Fortunato.”

“Ha ha, and then what? ;) ”

“For the love of God, Montresor!”
-Cask of Amontifriendzone, Edgar Allan Poe

Incessantly, I heard a smacking,
as of some entitled dipshit whacking,
whacking on my chamber door.

Resignedly, I placed another layer,
voicing a quiet, repeated prayer,
“This dude thinks he’s a player,
but I am not a point to score,
he should fuck off and bother me no more.”

Quoth the friendzoned, “Fucking whore.”

- The Craven, by Edward Allen Bro

edgar allen bro

Oh my god

holy shit

“Nice guy!” said I, “Total dildo–nice guy still if nerd or dudebro,
Whether reddit sent, or whether romcoms tossed thee here ashore,
Barely known yet still entitled, holding now your Tom Waits vinyl,
Begging me for something primal, tell me truly, I implore
Is this–is this shit for fucking real? Tell me, tell me, I implore!
Quoth the friendzoned, “Fucking whore.”

“Nice guy!” said I, “Total dildo–nice guy still if nerd or dudebro,
By the mores that you abuse thus, by those films we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, by stalking me through Facebook,
You have gained a twisted outlook of whom those tropes are for,
Paint a rare and radiant dream girl whilst you remain a bore,
Quoth the friendzoned, “Fucking whore.”

“Be that slur our sign of parting, creep or douche!” I shrieked, upstarting,
“Get thee back to lonely anguish and your friend’s used comic store!
Leave no white rose as a token of the lust you claim heartbroken,
Leave my scathing words to soak in! Quit the name calling of ‘whore’,
When you lust for every girl, but when they say nay they are whores!
Quoth the friendzoned, “Fucking whore.”

And the friendzoned, never scoring, still imploring, still imploring,
On some fetid old subreddit for a girl who will adore
The nicer guys and not the “douchebags”, unaware that it’s a red flag
To be his soulmate o'er him learning they both like the movie Thor
To fuck him for being nerdy even though he is a bore,
Then she says no–fucking whore.

that internal rhyme scheme is a fucking master class


I don’t reblog poetry, typically, but..
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Witch Work by Neil Gaiman.
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“Do not go gentle
the poets say
the same way I shout
Fight me
to the boy down the street
everything inside me burning
the poets say
so I will make my voice heard
the poets say
so I will gnash my teeth and snarl
Do not go gentle
the poets plead
have no fear, a gentle girl does not live here”
- a girl who is angry, who is furious, who is scared, a girl who won’t give up without a fight /// d.c.j. (via dannwiilds)
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“We will survive this”

Is not some naive platitude
To comfort the frightened and grieving
That forgets bloody and neglectful
History where we failed terribly
To protect the most vulnerable

“We will survive this”

Is a snarled battlecry
Spoken by those who know
They will stand over graves
Of friends and family who cannot
Survive the coming lean years

“We will survive this”

Is a mantra in the night
When there is no other hope
To stay the blade or the bottle
That promise a final safety from all pain
And silence that is no victory

“We will survive this”

Is an outstretched hand
Offering to share what little there is
With those who have less
Even if all I have to give is words
Because I have nothing else

“We will survive this”

May be the slimmest of hopes
To cling to when everything else is despair
But it is a thread of hope
And I will not cut it and take away
What may be someone’s only lifeline

And when this is over
When the bodies are numbered
Bitter tears shed for those
We could not save for trying
When there is more than thin hope

Then it will be time for new words
For rest and renewal and remembrance
Until that day comes
I will keep hoping that this is true

We will survive this
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From The Old Astronomer (To His Pupil) by Sarah Williams

The full poem:

Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, – I would know him when we meet,When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of howWe are working to completion, working on from then to now.Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,And remember men will scorn it, ‘tis original and true,And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,What for us are all distractions of men’s fellowship and wiles;What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate.Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?Well then, kiss me, – since my mother left her blessing on my brow,There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;I can dimly comprehend it, – that I might have been more kind,Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,–Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you stillTo the service of our science: you will further it? you will!There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;But if none should do my reaping, ‘twill disturb me in my sleepSo be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,–God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.
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what if
when icarus fell
apollo caught him
before he hit the sea,
arms as warm as the sun,
but safer.

what if
when ariadne cast the rope
across a broken branch
aphrodite stepped in
with a reminder that this,
this is not the kind of love
you die for.

what if
when achilles
was ready for war
ares appeared with a smile
and said “you win well when you win,
but what are you unwilling
to lose if you lose?”
and achilles knew the answer.

if you could
retell the tale wouldn’t you want
to tell it kinder? wouldn’t you
want to give them peace, even love,
where you could?



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