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if today was my last
If today was my last How would I spend it? would I take in all the little things, gathering all those little details that I have always missed, my head has always been too full of all these things that keep me up at night. Or would I still just float through it all Still just a shell of the kid I once was, all the vibrancy and wonder having left years ago.
Would I go to the library? to collect a few last lines Letting them live on the tip of my tongue. only to set them free with my last breath. letting the feeling of ink on the page, be the last thing my fingertips will feel. the smell of paper and secrets, invading my senses and welcoming me home at last.
Would I go to the school that has hallways I have haunted? having drifted through them, my eyes empty and my brain always too full with all those thoughts. stopping in the classes to whisper a few final goodbyes even though nobody would notice or hear me pausing the disorder and energy in those hallways, for just a few moments, finally letting myself take it all in.
would I go to the forest wherein the deepest part I could lie on its soft grass floor, in the utter calm of it letting my lungs finally breathe in the crisp air, the feeling of its coldness expanding within them. closing my eyes for the last time, finally letting myself feel at peace and safe, hearing the bird's singing floating around me, their cries being the last thing I will ever hear.
My last words will be uttered so softly that not even the wind would hear them, when they escape this prison of my mind, floating away with my final exhale. My last breath will flow out feeling free for the first time, escaping into the world seeing it all.
i love you
I have loved you since We were young. barely old enough to even understand what love even was. the feeling of pure and utter devotion I had felt for you before I fully realized How much love would ruin me. How much it would kill me Tearing me apart, never letting me go Stealing away my heart, never giving it back
be proud
You tell me to SPEAK UP. To be "proud of my words" Let them out into the world. Stand behind them, ready to defend them with my life. And my entire being and soul
but how am I supposed to be "proud" of my words when I haven't even learned how to be proud of my self
how am I supposed to be "proud" Of these words I say. When I've learned that they don't even matter They get shot down and ignored. Before they even got the chance to be spoken.
How am I supposed to be "proud" when I've seen how you react To the thoughts, I've put out. Putting my heart and soul into them and then getting to watch you kill them
Reblogging for the everything
The Last Words Of 25 Famous Dead Writers
When you’ve dedicated your life to words, it’s important to go out eloquently.
Ernest Hemingway: “Goodnight my kitten.” Spoken to his wife before he killed himself.
Jane Austen: “I want nothing but death.” In response to her sister, Cassandra, who was asking her if she wanted anything.
J.M Barrie: “I can’t sleep.”
L. Frank Baum: “Now I can cross the shifting sands.”
Edgar Allan Poe: “Lord help my poor soul.”
Thomas Hobbes: “I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap into the dark,”
Alfred Jarry: “I am dying…please, bring me a toothpick.”
Hunter S. Thompson: “Relax — this won’t hurt.”
Henrik Ibsen: “On the contrary!”
Anton Chekhov: “I haven’t had champagne for a long time.”
Mark Twain: “Good bye. If we meet—” Spoken to his daughter Clara.
Louisa May Alcott: “Is it not meningitis?” Alcott did not have meningitis, though she believed it to be so. She died from mercury poison.
Jean Cocteau: “Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking towards me, without hurrying.”
Washington Irving: “I have to set my pillows one more night, when will this end already?”
Leo Tolstoy: “But the peasants…how do the peasants die?”
Hans Christian Andersen: “Don’t ask me how I am! I understand nothing more.”
Charles Dickens: “On the ground!” He suffered a stroke outside his home and was asking to be laid on the ground.
H.G. Wells: “Go away! I’m all right.” He didn’t know he was dying.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: “More light.”
W.C. Fields: “Goddamn the whole fucking world and everyone in it except you, Carlotta!” “Carlotta” was Carlotta Monti, actress and his mistress.
Voltaire: “Now, now, my good man, this is no time for making enemies.” When asked by a priest to renounce Satan.
Dylan Thomas: “I’ve had 18 straight whiskies…I think that’s the record.”
George Bernard Shaw: “Dying is easy, comedy is hard.”
Henry David Thoreau: “Moose…Indian.”
James Joyce: “Does nobody understand?”
In-between calling you my moon, and admitting that you are my muse.
I just love these pictures of Sylvia Plath. ❤️
The Poet's Corner Window at Westminster Abbey, designed by Graham Jones, with diamonds for Alexander Pope, Oscar Wilde, Christopher Marlowe, Elizabeth Gaskell, Robert Herrick, A.E. Housman, and Frances Burney (descending, left then right)
In The White Goddess, Robert Graves quotes an old Irish triad as saying, “It is death to mock a poet, to love a poet, to be a poet”. As a source of information, Robert Graves is slightly more reliable than Sir Breuse Sans Pitie, and while I’ve seen references to this triad elsewhere, I can’t find an original source for it. Regardless of that, I rather like it.
(From Athletics and Manly Sport by John Boyle O'Reilly)
Words to live by: Fear Celtic Poets
From “Buarth Beird” in The Book of Taliesin
(Marged Haycock’s translation, second edition)
(From Athletics and Manly Sport by John Boyle O'Reilly)
Words to live by: Fear Celtic Poets
𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓹𝓮 𝓓𝓲𝓮𝓶🕯