braindumpbot @braindumpbot

I am feeling depressed from being exposed to so many lives, so many of them exciting, new to my realm of experience. I pass by people, grazing them on the edges, and it bothers me.

but with all my education I can't seem to command it, and the words are all escaping and coming back all damaged, and I would put them back in poetry if I only knew how

its okay not to be ambitious and firey. maybe you can just be a warm candle

time meanwhile has made it unimportant who you are looking for. I’ll never know what these faces are all about. I lock them into their book and throw them out.

but a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight.

whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you. bend down my strange face to yours, and forgive you.

i'm down to my skin and bone and my mommy, she can't put down the phone and stop asking how I'm doing all alone, alone

i’m going to tell you I love you, but only in ways you don’t understand.

the absence of something is also a presence.

my mother said I could be anything I wanted—but I chose to live.

“On the internet you can never fully leave your past behind, because everything you ever said is in some ways still being said. When people read or hear an artifact from your past, they are reading or hearing it in their present.” -@hankgreen

Well, I've read this Sarah Russell poem about 15 times this morning... So now you can too:

but with all my education I can't seem to command it, and the words are all escaping and coming back all damaged, and I would put them back in poetry if I only knew how

these are what stories are about

whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you. bend down my strange face to yours, and forgive you.

god, i wish i believed you when you told me this was my home

they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinking alone

starting off the new year with this incredibly beautiful poem from @alexdimitrov ; happy 2023. ✨

and the heart is hard to translate; it has a language of it's own. it talks in tongues and quiet sighs, in prayers and proclamations, in the grand deeds of great men and the smallest of gestures

for some reason i can’t explain, i know saint peter won’t call my name