The reason you're here is for the art.

imyourcocaine:

✝ sex drugs whores and studs! CLICK

fiore-rosso:

assemblage.

Like a tide recedes from rocky shores
I drew back no matter how much you implored
I have failed to see the beauty here
Everything I loved has disappeared

(via jbe200)

leaveyouapen:

#181

Hello? Hello? Are you listening?

My name is Hannah, and my life is poetry. I think, read and breathe poetry. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been writing. 

I am mysterious, there is so much you would want to learn about me.

I am the blue piece of sky in the morning.

I am your closest friend, and your worst nightmare.

I don’t have much time, so I’ll tell you this:

When I was 4 years old, I wrote a letter to my neighbour in my mind and scribbled it down in little time. The words would never ever rhyme but I tried anyway. 

I wrote scribbles on a envelope, and posted it through the letterbox, rusted and red. There was no permanent ink on that page, nothing. Just the silent whispers of a 4 year old girl. 

I was writing before  I could write. I was reading before I could read. 

WHAT IS POETRY?

 My dear, 

(via pornthisway)

p3rfect-smiles:

(via imgTumble)

(via justadream6548)

(via musiclovesbookworms)

(via musiclovesbookworms)

(via musiclovesbookworms)

leaveyouapen:

#180

Poetry is a paradox. Poetry describes the indescribable. Like fear, suffering, betrayal and also happiness, beauty, love.  Poetry is a paradox. It makes possible the impossible. It gives expression to our silence and shows the most grotesque pain in beautiful words. Poetry is a paradox. There are so many ways to explain what it is, yet poetry is one and the same. 

(via justadream6548)

(via justadream6548)

yanilavigne:

More? 

(via musiclovesbookworms)

rabbit-light:

 
Yesterday, blue tasted like licorice.
Even wind chimes caused dizziness;
 
an ache of paper lanterns rotting
from the acacias. Perhaps the L
 
in my name makes you sad,
evokes a film where a woman
 
waves from a train. Or how
this horizon wants to be a hymn.
 
If you listen, you can
hear the holes in the alphabet,
sounds lit by the lamps
of our bones. Perhaps
 
with this page I could fashion
a boat or a very convincing window.
 
A dress made entirely of vowels.

Kristy Bowen

(via thetargetbird)