To the night by Malleni from deviantart
Shooting Stars by DeviousClown from deviantart
Molding an image out of iridescent clay, filled with a hundred shards of your broken expectations and the things you wish to see within me Standing raw, naked, torn to shreds, trying to pull my skin back up over me and around me, the thinnest of membranes I turn to for protection What you see has become what I see and without your hammering voices I would become nothing, nothing more than...
Change the World by DreamerSeven from deviantart
wordless.speech by last-moment from deviant art
Detroit Pit Bull by inviziblezero from deviantart
I’m crying because he’s upset or sick or maybe both and I have no way of knowing and no way of making him feel better. You’re listening to me on the other end of the line, listening to me cry because I know I can’t keep him and yet there’s no one who will want him, no one but me. He’s damaged goods and no one wants damaged goods. You say to me that I need to...
Supernatural by Infinite705 from deviantart
Homeless by Cursed-Beauty47 from deviantart
I’m standing on a corner waiting for the signal to cross the street. You’re standing next to me impatiently pushing the button. I watch you while pretending to watch the glowing red hand and I wonder why it is that life works out the way it does. Why do I have a house to go home to at night while you keep everything you own in that torn green backpack? Why can I afford nice clothes...
Does anyone else ever see someone, a girl on her bike with her face tilted up to the fading sun, or a man in his grungy car with one arm hanging out the window and wonder what it is to be them? What is their existence defined by? Am I missing out on something? And then it makes me wonder, does anyone ever see me, catch me in a moment of pure authenticity and wonder what it is to live my life?
There are many reasons why novelists write– but they all have one thing in...– John Fowles (via libraryland) (via teachingliteracy) (via booklover)
A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, “Now his breath goes,” and some say, “No.” So let us melt, and make no noise, 5 No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; ‘Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity...
The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.– Ezra Pound