zacdavid | reblog

Son, we need to talk. Click to help out my friend. Nah, maybe you couldn’t help

avant-que-joublie:

i want us to
have conversations
entirely without
words -

i want you to
walk by me and
pull me into the
saddle of your hips
for a split second,
and tell me what you
want without ever
opening your mouth -

i want you to look
at me and recognize
everything i’ll never
have the courage to
scream out to you,

i want us to smile
and wink and
snarl our way
into forever,
wrapped in a
bubble of splendid
slience

to poem.

peculiarandperturbed:

Why isn’t “to poem” a verb? I don’t write poetry, I breathe it, I birth it, I am it. Without hands to write with or a tongue speak with, my very soul would fill, overflow, burst with delicious verse and syntax. Poetry is its own species; a creature, living, breathing, beating; consuming the heart of its creator until released into the wild world of ideas. “To poem” could cover the feelings and motions of the soul other words fail to elucidate.

golden days

avant-que-joublie:

we slept piled on top
of each other,
limbs tangled and
minds traipsing through
the universes we
created,
eyes closed against
harsh sunlight

avant-que-joublie:

let’s sleep like the dead
and dream of the living,
breathing gods that are
somewhere out there

avant-que-joublie:

she was helium balloons
that he had in his hands
and let go;

she was helium balloons
that were set free and
floated to the impossibly blue
sky;

she was helium balloons
that popped
when they got too high

avant-que-joublie:

i want to destroy
something beautiful,
crumble it in my
hands and burn it
in a blazing blue and orange
fire by the sea,
so that i can see if
beauty really does
last forever

avant-que-joublie:

when she sobbed,
she sobbed with her
mouth open and
her arms wrapped around
her torso,
taking great gulping breaths;

from far away,
she looked like she
was laughing -

she

looked

happy

avant-que-joublie:

take me to the ocean
and let me feel miniscule,

like a tiny waif of a girl
who could be carried
away by the waves,
and whose roar does
not compare to the
anger of the sea