"You Have Gained A New Source Of Enjoyment, And It Is Well To Have As Many Holds Upon Happiness As Possible."

You must realize there are consequences for your attractions

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas

Maybe this one's overrated, but it's my favorite.

I brought you cookies, but my ulterior motive is that now I get to see you smile

I saw The Lumineers the other day (my favorite band), and I can tell you that post-concert depression is real

I heard if you make a post about blackout poetry someone will make blackout poetry of it.

come on little blackout poetry vampires come inside I invite you in

make some blackout poetry I want to see what you come up with

I’m ready for really good shit and that means hilarious ones

good shit is also just blackout poetry in general

chefs kiss

If you were coming in the fall

-- Emily Dickinson

Blackout Poetry #28

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I like cloudy rainy days because it doesn't feel like the world is trying to force me to be cheerful. I can be happy in peace.

"We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright."

-- Ernest Hemingway (A Moveable Feast)

“she lives the poetry she cannot write.”

oscar wilde