Lucy Ford

Kyla-
19-
Mom-
Atmosphere & Rhymesayers Fanatic-
Poem Enthusiast-
 Lone Writer-
Art Lover-
 Book Reader-
When I grow up
I want to be an Indian Chief.

Suddenly you’re 21 and you’re screaming along in the car to all the songs you listened to when you were sad in middle school and everything is different but everything is good.

Friendship isn’t about who you’ve known the longest. It’s about who walked into your life, said “I’m here for you” and proved it.

Just because someone desires you, it does not mean that they value you.


Read it over.

Again.

Let those words resonate in your mind.

Nayyirah Waheed  (via mleting)

(Source: reina-negrita, via running-puppets)

Part of me knows one more day won’t do anything except postpone the heartbreak. But another part of me believes differently. We are born in one day. We die in one day. We can change in one day. And we can fall in love in one day. Anything can happen in just one day.

—Gayle Forman, Just One Day (via feellng)

(via teenager90s)

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,

it’s what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of “Old Battersea Bridge.”
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.

Here when I say “I never want to be without you,”
somewhere else I am saying
“I never want to be without you again.” And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet

in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.

Bob Hicok, ”Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem” (via focloir)

(Source: somstory, via lifeinpoetry)

It’s not the length of time we knew someone that makes them so special. It’s what they brought into our lives.

—Sandra Kring, A Life of Bright Ideas (via teenager90s)