Let’s start off by saying that I’m wicked Irish—to the core. And my Dad even more so. “Stereotypical Irish,” that is, with drinking songs and green hats and partying hard on St. Patty’s Day, boiled potatoes an all. He used to play all of these Irish songs in the middle of the night, blasting them through the house so all of our neighbors could hear it. His favorite is The Parting Glass, which has been covered a ridiculous amount of times by a ridiculous amount of people (The High Kings, Cara Dillon, Ed Sheeran, etc).

Anyway, this, The Clancy Brothers, was the only version I remembered. He always talked about having this one played at his funeral (even though it’s a drinking song, but I guess that’s my father for you). I play it to calm me down, and it really helps the writing process. A lot of what I post in the “noveling music” I don’t listen to when I write, which seems a bit hypocritical, I know (I was thinking of putting up a playlist from me—I’m still debating). Those are songs that people tell me they listen to. I listen to Irish music, because it reminds me of my dad. 

He liked songs like The Rocky Road to Dublin, and Johnny I Hardly Knew You, and From Galway to Graceland. I subconsciously picked up the lyrics from all of them. I don’t know, I’m weird.

IT’S GOOD FOR YOUR SOUL, DON’T COMPLAIN.

(Source: sixteenbetterdays)

(Source: impactings)

(Source: zo1oft)

completelyvoidofsubstance:

resignation.

cooperated:

decided to try this

childishnotions:

writing is safer, somehow
because my pen cannot stutter like my lips do,
and words get stuck in throats,
not fingertips, can’t stumble
on paper trails of blue lines
because writing is definite and clear
and no one can tell if i am crying
or laughing
through written words alone 

chop-louis:

you’re like a blanket
that keeps me warm
on a cold winter’s night.

you’re like a filter
that keeps me away
from the soft burn
and the sharp chill.

but sometimes it gets too hot
underneath the layers
so i peel them off
and slip back outside
into the darkness
and stinging breeze
without a sweater.

hand-hyphens

deangrimly:

— your cheeks tufted
in my tiger-paw palms,
the dust swirl stops
and sighs, and wall-clock ticks;
your hands hyphenate
constantly, my ever-interruption
but not my grass after all,
just here —

Maxims for the Misguided

parvosunda:

I. Most people would rather starve
for what isn’t theirs than care 
about what they already have,
choosing to waste their lives
wishing for what
they don’t. 

II. A tadpole 
whose legs 
never grow
won’t miss what it’s like 
to hop.

III. There’s a darkness between 
the stars and it wants to 
swallow you 
whole, but 
you can still see 
the moon 
almost every single night.  

IV. While the sun melts
the snow to let the flowers grow, 
a man
burns the
haystack
in search of a
needle.

V. And the salmon
never
stops
fighting
the current. 

nevver:

I don’t need a mouth.

(Source: aintnorhymeorreason)

(Source: utt3rly-submerged)