the truth about love
the same girl who laughs and talks a lot and seems very happy is also the same girl that may cry herself to sleep every night

X CLOSE
+
              Home
/
   ask me anything
/
Twitter
/
Instagram
/
Archive
/
Theme
View Photoset
2,718 notes
 /  Via: bwkaty
View Photoset
135 notes
 /  Via: dandylionseeds
shadow-poet:

For the first time in my life, I’ve been feeling truly, physically angry. 
The Lesson

profesore:

The teacher at the blackboard

drones on in a language

the students don’t understand,

and don’t want to learn,

fearing the slow death that comes

with years of repetition, and learning

the lines written in his face,

the glum pallor of something long forgotten,

in the hours of tedium,

I promised myself
that one day I will be
brave enough to
hold your hand in public
without flinching
every time a car comes
by and honks its horn—
it’s not that I’m ashamed
of physical contact
or obnoxious automotive
noises but my heart is still
tender and I can’t handle
what others think about
us when I am still recovering
from the fall I took for you.
- I fell for you but the rest of the world says I tripped (via ink-trails)
http://the-writing-writer-wrote.tumblr.com/post/92674347490/the-first-time-you-break-you-will-wonder-why-no

the-writing-writer-wrote:

The first time you break, you will wonder why no one else
feels the earthquake rumbling inside of you like a monster
waking up from a nap. You’ll stare at your mother who’s still
engulfed in the TV, watch as your father yells at your mom
from the bedroom about something that honestly doesn’t…

I was like you, I never saw it. it took a while, but it started to appear everywhere. it was when he hit that note that made my eyes water and my goosebumps jolt awake in the song I fuelled on repeat for days as a crutch. it was how someone would bite their lip when they told someone they loved them, even if not to me. it was in observing others, it was when I would unearth a laugh from somewhere inside me yet to be discovered, let alone fit for words. it was in every Have A Good Day, and each Thank You and Please and You Look Wonderful Today whispered and shouted and sang from person to person. it hid itself under every guitar riff and hit of the drum that would get the air caught in my chest every time I listened. it was at two o’clock in the morning when I would think of a line of poetry that just fit nice and snug among the others. it was when I dove into the pool for the first time all summer, and the chlorine attacked my skin making it ice and fire at the same time, and I felt like a cannonball of elements. it was walking with my friend in the middle of the night and pretending we were rulers of the streets, only because we were the only ones on them. it was every polite smile and snort of laughter and falling in love with people and books and sunsets and learning the lyrics to the furiously fast parts of old rock songs. it was there I found it, life.
- For Those With Death In The Beds Of Their Nails And In The Backs Of Their Minds (via deathlusted)

My father has engineer eyes. His world
is broken down into measurements and
HTML code. He is an expert with equations,
with the definite. Uncertainty is a different matter.

He is tall. Feet always planted on the ground.
Lungs loud enough that his snores fill the
whole house at night. They are strong,
have learned to breathe the toxic Shanghai air.

Sometimes disasters are not named for people.
Sometimes an asteroid called “Unemployment”
will crash-land into your upper middle-class
backyard, leaving a crater gaping in the ground.

SURVIVAL KIT FOR A NUCLEAR EXPLOSION:
One, a water filter and anything edible
Two, a complete set of Marie’s paint tubes
Three, thirty canvases.

In the event of an apocalypse; the computers
have stopped working. The bridge has
collapsed. The light bulbs have burned out.
And my father traded his engineer eyes for

painter hands. Calculations become color.
Technology to tints. Hardware to hues.
There is more than one meaning
to the phrase “still life”

In between foraging and interviews,
he curls himself up in a basement bomb shelter.
This is his studio. Newspapers strewn
across the table. Prominent job listings

circled in a halo of red acrylic.
Upon the easel, the canvas is sliced to portions.
How many daubs of blue can fit in that corner?
How wide is the spectrum of one square inch?

Precision. Technique. They build together
red and blue and yellow mixing in unity.
When the earth’s water supply dries up,
he will use his sweat to clean the brushes.

When the lingering traces of radiation,
bury themselves under the soil
refusing to let anything grow,
he will sketch a landscape.

When the zombies climb from the grave,
hungering to turn you brain-dead and
purposeless, he will remind you
of all the places worth painting,

of all the faces worth drawing.
When the roof has collapsed on the house,
he will plaster it up with canvases of red.
Brick by brick. ‘Til it turns whole.

When you let him see what Armageddon
looks like, he will take it headfirst
with painter hands and show you just
how beautiful the dust can be.

- paint the apocalypse (via jemmatangerine)
o-l-d-s-o-u-l-s
View Photoset
3,539 notes
 /  Via: irwinofficial