Once I dated a woman I only liked 43%.
So I only listened to 43% of what she said.
Only told the truth 43% of the time.
And only kissed with 43% of my lips.

Some say you can’t quantify desire,
attaching a number to passion isn’t right,
that the human heart doesn’t work like that.
But for me it does-I walk down the street

and numbers appear on the foreheads
of the people I look at. In bars, it’s worse.
With each drink, the numbers go up
until every woman in the joint has a blurry

eighty something above her eyebrows,
and the next day I can only remember 17%
of what actually happened. That’s the problem
with booze-it screws with your math.

-Jeffrey McDaniel

I’m in a bad place.

Self-pity and hatred have been part of me for so long that I no longer notice their existence.
It seems odd that someone so filled with self-anger would be so selfish.

Am I that bad of a person?
Am I that selfish?

I have hated myself for so many years without paying that much attention to who I was.

I’m tired of being so angry at myself.

I’m in a bad place, but I’ll come out.
I hate to give up.
I will change.

Diary of a Broken Heart

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

-Jeffrey McDaniel

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

-Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII

You must accept that’s who he really is.
You must accept you cannot be his
unless he is yours. No compromise.
He is a canvas on which paint never dries;
a clay that never sets, steel that bends
in a breeze, a melody that when it ends
no one can whistle. He is not who
you thought. He’s not. He is a shoe
that walks away: “I will not go where you
want to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”
“I’m not. I have the sole of a lover
but don’t know what love is.” “Discover
it, then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”
“Sometimes.” “Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”
You have to hear what he is telling you
and see what he is; how it is killing you.

-kate light
(via poetry dispatch) (via silentsigh) (via crazybeautiful)

because this is what you do. get up.
blame the liquor for the heaviness. call in late
to work. go to the couch because the bed
is too empty. watch people scream about love
on Jerry Springer. count the ways
it could be worse. it could be last week
when the missing got so big
you wrote him a letter
and sent it. it could be yesterday, no work
to go to, whole day looming.
it could be last month
or the month before, when you still
thought maybe. still carried plans
around with you like talismans.
you could have kissed him last night.
could have gone home with him, given in,
cried after, softly, face to the wall, his heavy arm
around you, hand on your stomach, rubbing.
shower. remember your body. water
hotter than you can stand. sit
on the shower floor. the word
devastated ringing the tub. buildings
collapsed into themselves. ribs
caving toward the spine. recite
the strongest poem you know. a spell
against the lonely that gets you
in crowds and on three hours’ sleep.
wonder where the gods are now.
get up. because death is not
an alternative. because this is what you do.
air like soup, move. door, hallway, room.
pants, socks, shoes. sweater. coat. cold.
wish you were a bird. remember you
are not you, now. you are you
a year from now. how does that
woman walk? she is not sick or sad.
doesn’t even remember today.
has been to Europe. what song
is she humming? now. right now.
that’s it.

—Marty McConnell

(via saabl)(via sunlit-skies)

When I am an old Horsewoman
I shall wear turquoise and diamonds,
And a straw hat that doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my social security on red wine and carrots,
And sit in the alley way of my barn,
And listen to my horses breathe.

I will sneak out in the middle of a summer night
And ride the old bay gelding
Across the moonstruck meadow
If my old bones will allow.

And when people come to call,
I will smile and nod
As I walk past the gardens to the barn and show instead the flowers
Growing inside stalls fresh-lined with straw.

I will shovel and sweat and wear hay in my hair as if it were a jewel.
And I will be an embarrassment to all,
Who will not yet have found the peace in being free
To have a horse as a best friend,
A friend who waits at midnight hour
With muzzle and nicker and patient eyes

For the kind of woman I will be
When I am old.