curiousseriousthoughts:

How they see a poet:
     A soul who withdrew himself/herself
     from reality and existed in
     his/her own world full of
     crypts and mysteries.

How a poet sees himself/herself:
     A desolated soul trapped
     in the confines of loneliness and pain
     whose only way of exhausting
     his/her heavy feelings
     brought by the unfair world
     is to write jumbled words
     that only make sense to him/her
     and those other living in
     “his/her world”.

(via inkpenstains)

inkpenstains:

because i think you’re the happiest i’ve ever been.

i’ll paint it in my cartilage

and carve it into my spine. it’ll be the worst poem

i’ve ever written.

heartfeltrambles:

I believe my future lies in dread.

For you see, that when I lie in bed

pieces of fiction sift through my head

and they blur more and more with reality every minute.

(via pervaricated)

inkpenstains:

less promises escape voodoo dolls.

stitched lips. just fragments.

just building block rubble.

just bone marrow pieces.

they are the only things

that keep the secrets breathing.

(via pervaricated)

c-l-a-i-r:

girls are secrets,
kept wrapped up in
perfumed whispers until
the day you unravel them
like thread

(via pervaricated)

finally ( my work ) memorial weekend is over and i’m laying naked in my bed.

it’s hot as death in this house, but only one more week or less of this misery and i will have a beautiful air conditioner in my room, yessss.

so excited for this!

you guys don’t even know.

fuck summer.