no compulsion other than to create.

my body is a sequence of stigmata. / my heart is unpronounceable.

— Scherezade Siobhan, from “Aberrata/ Unmapped – I,” published in fog machine (via lifeinpoetry)

(Source: fogmachine.life, via lifeinpoetry)

I have loved, really loved a few people and it always seemed to be tragic or something equally neurotic.

— Anne Sexton, from a letter to Anthony Hecht written c. September 1961 (via violentwavesofemotion)

I am tired. These people make me feel I have a hole in the middle of me.

— D.H. Lawrence, from The Complete Works; “The Plumbed Serpent,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

Why didn’t I learn to treat everything like it was the last time? My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future.

— Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
(via wordsnquotes)

(Source: wordsnquotes.com, via wordsnquotes)

A bitter, broken thing,
my heart,

— H.D., from Collected Poems: 1912 - 1944; “Cassandra,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)

Quiet, yet wild.
Rough, and yet gentle,

— Sylvia Plath, from The Collected Poems; “Child,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.

— Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things
(via wordsnquotes)

(Source: wordsnquotes.com, via wordsnquotes)