I can’t pick my favourite
Idk, the lamp one is pretty good.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
i have to admit; i have written things that would go well on this list.
(Source: niallthatvampiremoney)
My Cross, Your Road
I would tear down these voiden laden
Walls of inescapable inextricable nothingness
With these all too heavy hands
Laced with the bad blood of yesterday’s tomorrows.
If I could only with bloodied hands
Seal this note of indebted forgiveness
I would bid you with love
My slighted kiss
But would you meet grief with your orange-tipped softened side
you
Fiery creature of she
The wild and all that is life?
Ignite in smouldering timbers the final
Bits of floundering fragments
Or would you with anger and hard-toned oakened flame
Leave me the indented, half scripted note
The torched tortured wreck which was
The sum of our fates,
Which was the one worth burning.
4 weeks ago - 
3
3 There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers
—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin
plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.
There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you
as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street
chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,
a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,
a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth
what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;
how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—
how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the
misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the
“There Is No Word,” Tony Hoagland (via highwayaisle)
(via putridity)
TRADING MY SORROWS: Midnight
I’m not a writer it’s not in my blood.
I’m not a writer,
it’s not in my blood though they speak with their lips and I hear with my heart.
I’m not a writer, it’s not in my blood.
Hello for those I love, never goodbye to part.
It’s not in my blood, from amidst
bright yellow the alphabets…
3 months ago - 2
2 
(via glasskites)
He would wake from sleep to miss the weight that never depressed the bed next to him, remember in earnest the gestures she never made, long for the un-weight of her un-arm slung over his too real chest, making his widower’s remembrances that much more convincing and his pain that much more real
Everything is illuminated, Jonathan Safran foer
I don’t know if I’ll have the time to write any more letters because I may be too busy trying to participate. So if this does end up being the last letter, I just want you to know that I was in a bad place before I started high school, and you helped me. Even if you didn’t know what I was talking about, or know someone who’s gone through it. You made me not feel alone. Because I know there are people who say all these things don’t happen and there are people who forget what it’s like to be sixteen when they turn seventeen. I know these will all be stories some day and our pictures will become old photographs. We all become somebody’s mom or dad. But right now, these moments are not stories. This is happening. I am here. And I am looking at her, and she is so beautiful. I can see it. This one moment when you know you’re not a sad story. You are alive. And you stand up and see the lights on the building and everything that makes you wonder, and you’re listening to that song, on that drive, with the people you love the most in this world. And in this moment, I swear, we are infinite.
(Source: kurtdevon, via ignis-aurumprobat)
I Need to Know
I need to know
who we are
some omnipotent dreamer’s
grand design
an angry god
a loving mind
on this battered tattered
little orb
of broken hearts
and hollow words
I need to know
we’re something more
no bought sex or drugs
for me tonight
no quick fix
to make me feel
I’m OK and all is well
are we innocent
are we love
I need to know
this frightened child’s
woeful cry
will it be heard
by anyone
I need to know
I’m not alone
(via mikefrawley)
Things that matter are not easy. Feelings of happiness are easy. Happiness is not. Flirting is easy. Love is not. Saying you’re friends is easy. Being friends is not.
David Levithan (Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List)
(Source: quotelibrary.info, via silentmirror)
Unutterably perfect.
In another life, maybe.
It’s a terrible love
and I’m walking with spiders.
(via commatrix)
Why is your raincoat
always crying?
Why does the hat on your head
hang over your eyes?
Your white shirt is buttoned
way up to the top
suspicious that zippers
don’t know when to stop.
and there’s certain a jacket is lying
why is your raincoat always crying?
why is your nightgown
so sad and sleepy?
what is the secret
your make-up refuses to tell?
bright colours grow weary
from years of neglect
brown scarf
grows tight
around your pretty neck
and just what is that sweater implying?
why is your raincoat always crying?
why does that old road
back like its dying?
why does it cling to your side
hanging on for dear life?
as you take off that dress
and you put on the next one
each hopeful outfit
will beg the same question
if going outside
is really worth trying
then why is your raincoat always crying?
10 months ago - 1
1 On nights like these
I allow my mind to wonder. I dwell upon what I once forcibly ousted from this new person. I think about how it could have been, and how it might have ended differently.
I always end up asking you, figment of a face in my fading imagination; how now, did we lose it all?
