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tell my soul to be at ease
that there is no straight way
to the straight path
tell my soul
to find its breath
to find its step
to find its beat
tell my soul to be at ease
to rest
to give
to take
to speed
tell my soul to be at ease
to stand still
to stand firm
to stand
even in

eve rivera

what is a writer
without her stories
an artist without their search
a teacher without his overthinking
what is a destination without the journey

how would you know if my eyes cannot tell you
of its tears
while I laugh

eve rivera

(Source: estimfalos, via thepeoplecouldfly)

right here
in my hand
is freedom
I deny
then binging
where is this balance
I search for
and forget to crave
have I missed
am I capable of
body moving
mind still
body still
mind moving
I search
I find
I lose
I repeat

eve rivera

“ Do good and throw it into the sea, for even if the fish do not notice, God will. ”

—    Turkish Proverb  (via doorkeeperoftheheart)

(via yourcupofcoffee)

“ I like my music straight pure, not watered down. ”

—    Nas (via gedachtengang)

(via ajarms)

“ A long time ago I learned not to explain things to people. It misleads them into thinking they’re entitled to know everything I do. ”

—    Lisa Kleypas, Dreaming of You  (via sitwithmetonight)

(Source: splitterherzen, via taskeatorange)


Repost forever

(Source: typhoidmary, via blackjatovia)



Havana, 1994 by Raul Cañibano

[look of the hour]


The Master at Work….Billie Holiday, 1955

(via blackjatovia)


words stuck
to plain old meanings
new old friends
the hiding I crave
but never good at
the solitude I want
and the balance I can’t keep
words stuck on my tongue
yet my being wide open
why speak
when presence
is grand
why bother
when eyes
tell all the secrets
and my movements
their punctuation marks
why speak stuck
why show face
graceful hands
strong legs
clumsy feet
are my life’s story

eve rivera

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i go to my old block
where my father was robbed
when he stumbled home drunk
where twenty year old
sidewalk potholes and cracks
scraped my young knees
the bus stop
boys met me at
and the fire hydrant
my sister braided
her daughter’s hair
on hot summer days
with the lake’s breeze
i go past blocks
that use to be abandon
and playgrounds that were broken
i watch construction
sprout like city mutants
and generation neighborhood legends
walk slowly into vanishing
points of no returns
i see leftover corner stores
that survive with quarter juices
and organic hummus
old beggars that were once
this neighborhood’s prostitute
i see gentrification in the generations
of grandchildren jogging past
under enrollment in neighborhood schools
dog parks and immigrant elders
ignored down the street
and my mom says
i will die here
i told you it would change good
and i only recognize
bathtub facets and
brick walls
that are ancient

eve rivera

to a life
that death threatens
that mortality questions
that doctors practice on
and i live through
you are loved
to a life
filled with beauty marks
scarred with imperfections
stretched and pulled
cut and sewn
you are admired
to a life
used as a battleground
telling stories of generations
with accents and features
used to birth tribes
of your motherhood
used to speak for an
overdosing soul
you are respected
to a life
that mortality questions
you are more than alive
you are eternal

eve rivera

(Source: sarabande, via culturesh0ck)