Tag: poetry

zanarnaryon:

thevagabondbard:

swanjolras:

gosh but like we spent hundreds of years looking up at the stars and wondering “is there anybody out there” and hoping and guessing and imagining

because we as a species were so lonely and we wanted friends so bad, we wanted to meet other species and we wanted to talk to them and we wanted to learn from them and to stop being the only people in the universe

and we started realizing that things were maybe not going so good for us– we got scared that we were going to blow each other up, we got scared that we were going to break our planet permanently, we got scared that in a hundred years we were all going to be dead and gone and even if there were other people out there, we’d never get to meet them

and then

we built robots?

and we gave them names and we gave them brains made out of silicon and we pretended they were people and we told them hey you wanna go exploring, and of course they did, because we had made them in our own image

and maybe in a hundred years we won’t be around any more, maybe yeah the planet will be a mess and we’ll all be dead, and if other people come from the stars we won’t be around to meet them and say hi! how are you! we’re people, too! you’re not alone any more!, maybe we’ll be gone

but we built robots, who have beat-up hulls and metal brains, and who have names; and if the other people come and say, who were these people? what were they like?

the robots can say, when they made us, they called us discovery; they called us curiosity; they called us explorer; they called us spirit. they must have thought that was important.

and they told us to tell you hello.

I’m not crying ur crying

SCP-1281 A machine sent out by a dying alien race with a simple message:

“The galaxy is dark, and empty, and cold. It spins inevitably toward death. You will die too, one day. Perhaps you will have longer than we have. We hope so. But one day you too must vanish.

“Before that time comes, you must light the darkness. You must make the night less empty. We are all small, and the universe is vast. But a universe with voices saying "I am here” is far greater than a universe silent. One voice is small, but the difference between zero and one is as great as one and infinity.

“We waited too long. Our voice is gone to echoes. Find others while there is still time. Make a chorus.

"And if this finds you too late, and your time is also passing, please send this message on, so the next voice can speak against the darkness.”

Dr. Bloom: “It was a very important message.”

SCP-1281: “Good. Mission was important. Knew it. Getting tired. Almost done.”

Dr. Bloom: “Done?”

SCP-1281: “Mission is done. Brain too hot. Cooling broken.”

Dr. Bloom: “Harbinger, are you…”

SCP-1281: “Master?”

Dr. Bloom: “I… yes?”

SCP-1281: “Did I do well?”

Dr. Bloom: “…Yes, Harbinger. Well done.”

SCP-1281: “Then I am well.”

pencap:

“1. leave your soulmate behind in the house you grew up in.
leave a packed bag always waiting in the bottom of your closet.
pick it up and leave on one nondescript day and leave no note of explanation or apology or love.
and if your heart leaps to break out of your ribcage in protest, let it. bury it in the floorboards beneath your soulmate’s bed
and leave no gravestone to mark where it died. when the monsters come next time, they will find no threads to entrap you in and no heart to carve out of your chest.”

— excerpt from “how to become immortal” ( j.p. )

somepiecesofmyheartandsoul:

“They did not tell you, did they? How hearts break in the quietest hour, all hidden up in a beautiful smile. Or how they laugh until they run out of breaths while a thousand needles find their way underneath their skin. They really did not tell you, did they? That you do not have to yell or cry out to the sky to be in pain, that you can still go on like nothing is wrong while crumbling down deep inside. They did not tell you at all, did they?”

— Lukas W. // They didn’t tell you

you never asked to fly.
 
you never craved the sky as your freedom
        never coveted the sun or the sea as your lover
        never claimed the birds as your friends and the wind as your servant.
 
you never wanted to
    soar with a halo of sunglare behind your head
    bear wings like angels bearing news of the heavens
    wave weighted arms like a sparrow trying to cross the ocean.
you never forged wings 
     of beeswax and fallen feathers
     of molten wax dripping feathers like molting birds.
 
you never threatened to break into the realm of gods
     to breathe their sacred air or
     to drink their sacred ambrosia or
     to steal their sacred fire.
 
you never even asked
     for sunshine and blue skies
     to gaze upon on lonely days
and you never even asked
     for moonlight and constellations
     to keep company on cold nights.
 
it’s too bad
                         that you had to fall
                                                                anyway.

icarus by any other name would fall just as far ( j.p. )

lostgansey:

inkskinned:

inkskinned:

dear universe;

hello. i am writing to let you know you did good job on the stars, and also on cats.

yours respectfully,
me

dear universe,

in the original post of this, it says “dogs” where it now says “cats”. i do not know when (or how) it got changed, but i am glad that someone loved cats enough to do that, because i love my dog and i also love my cats and i felt bad about not mentioning it that first time. i’m also glad for all the tags where people told me what i should have added (like libraries and waffles and maple syrup) and i am glad for all the comments about how much they love their pets (and some people have such cool pets!)

i kind of think, universe, if we are your children, this is our macaroni art. see, see, see, you gave us a little bit of the stars, and we’ve made our own constellations. we tried to give back to you by making art and music and books and bad poetry and our laughter and our love and our tv dramadies. we took pictures of the night sky and pictures of sunsets and pictures of dew, we fell in love with space and the rivers and the rain. i personally have my desktop background as a picture of one of your nebulas. your hair looked great that day.

i think…. you did a good job, universe, on the stars, and what the stars became, because you put us together and yes, yes, things might be terrible – but good gracious did we make so many things worth loving, worth writing to you about, worth telling you – thank you, i’m taking the spark you put in me and using it to be kind, to be alive, to be wildly fierce about our gardens and gentle about our pets.

so hello. i amend my previous memo. i am writing to let you know you did a good job on the stars, and on my dog and my cats and the lizard i kept illegally in my apartment. and universe, i hope you’re watching, because some of the people you made? they’re great, universe, and they’re full of love, just endlessly capable of loving. and they give me hope.

and through them, universe, that’s you. that’s how the stars sing.

yours respectfully,
me

This is the most beautiful thing

can you tell me a Story?
    what kind of a Story do you want me to tell?
    ( i am so full of Stories sometimes it feels like i am made of nothing else. i will give them to you, one by one, until there is nothing left in me. )
 
tell me about the brightest boy you ever knew.
    bright can mean a lot of things. bright like gold, like dawn, like stars…
    ( even cannon fire and muzzle flares and sword glints are bright in the darkest nights. )
 
you can choose. it’s your Story. i don’t mind.
    okay. i’ll tell you a story about the brightest Boy i ever knew.
    ( it doesn’t matter anyway; they’re all about the same Boy. it’s always been about the same Boy. )
 
does it have a happy ending?
    if i tell you now, it’ll ruin the Story.
    ( there is no ending because i refuse to call this Story finished. i am still hoping that it finds a happy ending somewhere beyond the apocalypse. )
 
fine. i’m listening.
    once upon a time, there was a Boy with fool’s gold for hair and dawn in his blood.
    ( and i couldn’t stop him from burning up with the fire in his heart. but he was beautiful when he burned. )

and for a moment, the world was too. ( j.p. ) || insp. (via pencap)

i left home a child
     and came back to trumpeting heralds
                              and parades in my name 
                              and historybooks with my face on the front cover––
     a hero. 
 
i left home a child
     and came back a hero
     but no one seems to see that a hero is a warrior
     and a warrior must first be born of war.
 
and i see too many children
        chasing after my footprints with joy
        wearing armour like blankets and helmets like crowns
        laughing with eyes bright as the faraway glint of sniper scopes.
 
and i do not want to leave a legacy
     of bloodstains and bruised knuckles
     and teeth clenched around burning bullets.
 
and i do not want anyone else
to leave home a child
     and come back a hero
tasting blood on every passing wind
and regret on every shaking breath.
 
but i left home a child
     and came back a hero
     and only a hero––
 
––not the historian who writes the legends
     or the god who writes the stars 
and i do not have it in me
to stop the next warrior
     who leaves home a child
          and comes back a hero.

the hero’s lament ( j.p. ) || home, legacies and regrets for anonymous 
(via pencap)