an insatiable curiosity

“The Animal Spell”

Someone once told me that animals are people under spells, and if you fall in love with them the spell will be lifted. I recently fell in love with a black trumpeter swan. I watched her ruffle her neck feathers for hours, watched her peck bugs from her breast. I was sure she would make a beautiful bride, but she was always a black trumpeter swan. I once brushed a horse’s hair for three straight years until it crumpled to death. The truth is there are no such thing as spells. The world is always as it is, and always as it seems. And love is just our own kind voice that we whisper into our own blood.

— Zachary Schomburg

Posted March 9, 2013 at 7:20pm in poems poetry prose words spilled ink love

Quote Post

When the floor drops out, as it has now,
you cannot hear the squirrel on the wire
outside your window, the wheels spinning
on the road below. You want only pity
and are presented with the unbelievable
effrontery of a world that moves on.
But wait: this is not the person you are.
You’re the kind of person who
sits in dark theaters crying at the collarbones
that curve across the dancers’ chests,
at the proof of a perfection they represent;
a person who goes out walking in a four-day drizzle,
sees a pot of geraniums and is seized, overcome
by how they can bring so much (what else
can you call it?) joy. You love the world,
are sure, at least, that you have. But be truthful:
you only love freely things that have nothing
to do with you. You’re like a matchstick house:
intricately constructed but flimsy and hollow inside.
You’re a house in love with the trees beside you -
able to look at them all day, aware of how faithful they are -
but unable to forgive that they’d lie down
leaving you exposed and alone in a large enough storm.

— “Another Poem About The Heart,” Jenn Habel (via clavicola)

(Source: commovente)

Posted May 13, 2012 at 2:47pm in poetry poets spilled ink lit words love heart | 92 notes

Text Post

I’ve been dreaming

of running.
of fist throwing and fire

honesty isn’t always the best policy.

I’m finding more reasons to support the concept
that it can be awfully selfish
to always be honest.

And I don’t mean that we should lie more—
only that some things need not be told
(even when someone thinks they should or need to know.)

I don’t support “lying by omission”
but sometimes an answer of silence should suffice.

________________________ .

Posted January 22, 2012 at 11:04pm in lies honesty words journal spilled ink ramblings | 1 note

Text Post

there may be no spring blossoms of yet,

and it’s sure you can see your breath in the air
but he’s broken my ice

and there’s a sprouting from my heart
tiny, delicate, and beautiful all the same

who says it need be spring for the butterflies to appear?

shuckssss.
— mkb,2012

Posted January 15, 2012 at 10:11pm in butterflies spring twitterpated poetry words spilled ink thoughts | 3 notes

Text Post

I dreamt of

a Viking protector, who stood in the pathway of hurt that was making like a bee-line towards me.
and then he took an arrow to the heart,
and I ran frantically into locked doors, wrong turns.
brick walls and jammed windows.

and then I opened a door, to another door, (and I told myself in this dream I had to escape the oncoming nightmare, that this last one would lead me to freedom.)

I ended up in my neighborhood, home as I thought.
people were surrounding me, watching as I swang my legs while I walked on my hands as if my legs were shrunken, broken. my legs were swinging beneath me and my arms were strong like tree trunks as I moved swiftly between the circle of surrounding people with their cruel eyes,
(and I finally realized to take back control, to make this dream my own, I’d have to accept it—)

I’m a freak.
and so I bared my fangs.

Posted January 4, 2012 at 11:06am in dreams what does it all mean nightmares rambling journal prose spilled ink | 3 notes

Text Post

sometimes it seems

I’m keeping a secret from myself, and maybe if I can decode the reflections of my irises than I’d reveal myself to me.

Posted December 19, 2011 at 6:42pm in secrets spilled ink prose ramblings journal | 2 notes

Text Post

I never found the fossils of angels,
but I unearthed enough truth
to fill the grave of my faith.
…

—mkb,2011

Posted December 9, 2011 at 7:07pm in faith poetry prose religion spilled ink verse | 6 notes

Text Post

oh, autumn!

sometimes, I imagine I could
fold into myself,
and become smaller
smaller smaller
small.

as a tiny being I’d travel the fleeting
world of the vibrant
fall trees and
scale the canyons carved in the bark
and up to the bridges of branches where
I’d make my home
in the cell of a leaf.

did you know that autumn leaves
are sustained by sunsets?
devouring the light
to manifest colors that shine a beacon
through the gray veil of cold,
to remind us
of warmer evenings that have past, and of
the swift dark to come.

and so I would live for the light at the
end of the day, to inhale the glow
so it could live within me
and my tree.
I’d paint the fog with my exuberant reds
and yellows to make sure
I get their attention,
so they can’t miss the beauty
that is only of autumn,
the beauty that will soon be gone.

— mkb,nov2011

Posted November 22, 2011 at 12:11pm in autumn poetry spilled ink leaves | 6 notes

Photo Post

(Source: the-healing-nest)

Posted November 15, 2011 at 5:31pm in light darkness prose poetry spilled ink | 228 notes

Text Post

“guitar picks”

your hands are
strangers to me. without
the breathing crystal scent
of the river on
your calloused fingertips,

you’re playing the same chords
but I can’t recognize
the song.

Posted October 24, 2011 at 6:38pm in Poetry Poems spilled ink

Link Post

You should date an illiterate girl

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

(via onnothingandeverything-deactiva)

Posted October 24, 2011 at 11:43am in illiterate writing prose dating vocabulary thoughts spilled ink | 16 notes

Link Post

i sing the body electric: and also here

beautyaswesleep:

Here’s to walking in the dark, and the thunderous magnification. Here’s to rain that floats like milkweed or small snow under street lights. Rain that should make a sound, but doesn’t. Rain that is thin. Rain that should be fog, but is too heavy. Rain that looks the way a tiny universes would…

Posted October 21, 2011 at 4:52pm in spilled ink poetry prose thoughts words

Text Post

it’s a strange feeling

to watch someone’s heart break in front of you. to be aware that you are the one doing the breaking, and to allow it to happen anyway. to watch him walk away without looking back, and step off the ledge. to know that he’s falling and you don’t look until he’s at the bottom. to see him below and his body is still whole, and to know his heart’s in pieces like spare pennies in a jar. a skeleton of hope is shattered porcelain. I feel guilty that I don’t hurt more, and I feel good that someone could care so much, and I feel guilty again that I let him. the real truth is, I fooled him with a phantom heart. a decoy to distract when I knew I couldn’t deliver the real one, the one I’ve never taken back from where it’s been kept.

Posted October 21, 2011 at 12:29am in prose spilled ink heartbreak who cares | 3 notes