On November 4, 1918, Wilfred Owen (b. March 18, 1893) was killed in action. Owen wrote some of the best poetry on World War I, with imagery that unflinchingly details the terrors of trenches and gas warfare. Imbued with confidence from mentor Siegfried Sassoon, much of his poetry also refuses to shy away from his feelings as a gay man. A mere five of his poems were published during his lifetime. When Owen died one week before the Armistice, he was only 25 years old.
petting stray cats that other people sneer at is punk rock and the kindest act of rebellion
Anon. You’re terrifying, it’s true!
But oh well
I guess it’s time I do,
It’s autumn.
The leaves aren’t the only thing that’s going to change.
Dream.
Dream, dream, dream.
Hold onto hope until you burst with it.
Hold on. Hold. On.
There is no path. From here on out, it’s the unknown. It’s your new world.
What’s beyond? Who are you?
It’s September, it’s my birth month, and I like to think that humans celebrate the anniversary of their existence on earth not because being born is a monumental feat but because as humans, we can always rebirth ourselves. If we feel we must be born again, then we will bear it all.
September won’t change your soul. You will change your own soul, and she will stand behind you, touching her cold-wind-and-whispers fingers to the small of your back, speaking your true name.
If I can take a breath, then I can lift my head.
If I can lift my head, then I can take a step.
And with that, I walk.
And with that, motion is mine;
No matter the haste, pay it no mind.
A journey is more than just path
So I’ll spend my moments
For the landscape to wander by my side.
me at 3 am, lying on an iceberg stretched on a picnic blanket, eating mangoes and asking the stars: how to trust people & make friends & be loved without having to reveal anything about myself ever
the stars know what we do but still watch us
Moami 