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#moss's poems
yikes-and-shrikes · 1 year
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2/6/22
lament for Daphne
is this freedom, Daphne? Apollo takes your body now for his own use—your leaves his crown, your timber his lyre-material. when you begged your father for escape, did you expect your feet to stick in the soil? deliverance not from, but to, as you are anchored to the earth ripe tor your pursuer's plucking. you are made a holy symbol of the man-god who drove you to this desperate transformation. even now you do not belong to yourself. is this the freedom you prayed for, Daphne? Eros and Apollo and Penaeus your father all playing their games at the cost of your life, and you now without eyes to weep over your fate; without leaves that can drop in protest. I will sit in your evergreen shade, Daphne, and sing the songs you can no longer remember.
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oxytocxins · 1 year
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I thought the earth remembered me, 
she took me back so tenderly. 
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perfectfeelings · 4 months
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The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.
Richard Moss
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perfectquote · 3 days
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The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.
Richard Moss
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quotefeeling · 4 months
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The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.
Richard Moss
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thoughtkick · 10 months
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Don't you ever give up hope. Not today. Not tomorrow. You were born with an infinite imagination. If one dream is shattered, pick up the pieces you can and create a new dream. Yes, reinventing yourself takes grit. But you've got that too.
Margaret B. Moss
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sweaty-confetti · 7 months
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ten short hymns representing a doomed sense of being
i. look at your hands. you are the weapon, you always have been.
ii. o my swineherd, o my swine. this is boyhood and they will kill you with it. it is not yours to begin with, you have to fight for it. you fight for it to be turned against and you know why. you crave difference. 
iii. you are not soft, you are not strong either. have you ever seen a fossil? you are an imprint of what you used to be. 
iv. all my wounds say the same thing. they tell me this is not how it should be. all my bandages keep them quiet and insist this is how it is. 
v. i died in a flood many years ago. 
vi. i am a girl falling asleep on the bus. i am the dying dog recognizing his master.
vii. i hurt my back doing a handstand and felt my teeth ache.
viii boyhood is ugly, i crave it. i crave it revoltingly, i sob into my bedsheets and wish i could tear out my flesh from where it doesn’t belong. i am desperate.
ix. i want to hold my friends. i want to have more friends. i do not want to scare people. i would rather scar myself than scare people. 
x. let me be soft, lord. my soul is going to eat me someday. until then, let me be soft.
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resqectable · 7 months
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The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.
Richard Moss
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perfeqt · 5 days
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The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.
Richard Moss
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quakeandquiver · 3 months
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My first foray into making/using natural dyes! The yellow-red is onionskin dye, supplemented with a little green watercolor (the background is just a patterned cardstock I have)
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khandedoe · 1 month
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There's no charm to life and its trinkets anymore
So we hold on to objects
No matter how hard the rust shows
Nobody is interesting enough for us anymore
That's why we give our eyes to random people
for a temporary high and leave them dry
stuck in a performance
Doing the same dance until it's unbearable to even themselves
The one thing that is immune to all of this
Is mystery
The world will never get tired of that
It's something we all can posses
That change can't alter
That time can't touch
That we will never truly understand
Mystery is an immortal charm
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yikes-and-shrikes · 9 months
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{3.24.22}
Your words slice away at the heart of a thing until it sits undisguised Bleeding softly on the kitchen table into puddles of ink And I touch my chest to know that my heart still beats Still beats intact though it feels like so many ribbons Curled around a kernel of A kernel of steadfast, stubborn Resistance — Multicolored Cold glass marble Smooth from my restless fingers probing Probing to ensure no cracks have formed in this This nonconductive core concealed in my flesh And I pray a whispered terror-filled prayer To a God I'm not quite sure can hear me: “don't let me lose control” — Shards of broken borosilicate slip between unpinned ribbons Fall musically to the floor revealing fault lines Intrinsic to the tense color-covered sphere Held as though it were a power cell and not And not an insulator Barring electricity Keeping me cold And quiet and still And still and still here Patterns unconfined and blooming bright Among shards of glass and ink and blood And a certainty sounding clear as chimes There is something good beyond what’s broken — The heart of a thing lying between us The truth of a thing held in hearts aching for closeness And slow mornings and warm evenings The drowsy contentment rooted in sureness And hearts left open on the kitchen table Whittling at a definition of “home” that breathes Soft as your lips on my cheek
Your words slice away at the heart of a thing until it sits undisguised Bleeding softly on the kitchen table into puddles of ink And I touch my chest to know that my heart still beats— It does—and the thing on the table sits newborn and clarified Gently peeled and shining fresh—and familiar
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stay-close · 8 months
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Don't you ever give up hope. Not today. Not tomorrow. You were born with an infinite imagination. If one dream is shattered, pick up the pieces you can and create a new dream. Yes, reinventing yourself takes grit. But you've got that too.
Margaret B. Moss
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perfectfeelings · 6 months
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The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.
Richard Moss
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shy-girl04 · 20 days
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Photographer - Tim Walker: model - Kate Moss
The Floating Poem, Unnumbered
Whatever happens with us, your body will haunt mine—tender, delicate your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond of the fiddlehead fern in forests just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs between which my whole face has come and come— the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there— the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth— your touch on me, firm, protective, searching me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers reaching where I had been waiting years for you in my rose-wet cave—whatever happens, this is.
Adrienne Rich
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quotefeeling · 11 months
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The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.
Richard Moss
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