Let's use bricks people throw at you and build a castle

  • teacher: why are you late?
  • me: why are you so obsessed with me

Vultures Like Lovers: I’m still that six year old girl with the tweety bird nightgown, tip...

I’m still that six year old girl with the tweety bird nightgown, tip toeing in ballerina flats, through a hallway I’ll never grown into. 
Although now, my fingertips are yellowing and the lining of my liver is much weaker. 
I can feel the tar in my lungs and my fingers are still crossed behind my back that I don’t end up like my father. 
I have learned to paint my finger and toe nails all by myself,
the same way I was alone, naked, in the bathtub when I learned to braid my own hair.

"I figured it out!"

I could’ve screamed it at the top of my lungs. 

"Surely, I taught you before"
"No, you haven’t"

I’m still the repressed frog caught in my parent’s throat that howls “good job, sweetheart” 

I am trying not to be a tragedy, although my words can’t help it. 
I spent twenty minutes today staring at my reflection through the camera with an unwashed face and could not chin up.

I woke up three hours too late and wasted another weekday.
Taking snapshots of my life, my memory has sought to find me some restoration but my life has never felt more futile. 
I pictured my death for nearly three hours today, ready and willing to accept all consequences. 
Even though I do not understand the pins and needles that have pierced my circumference, I am deflating.
I have words scribbled all over, my muscles ache and I worry that I am slowly losing my intelligence. 
I’m still that six year old girl, 

the one with the unbrushed hair, unwashed face, unnerved-

and I am waiting for the wrong reasons. 


i may not be the best person in the world but at least i’ve never been the asshole who sticks gum to the undersides of tables and chairs

(Source: yungaquarius, via daw-n)


Hearts, minds, souls


Hearts, minds, souls

(Source: octopussoir-, via healthy-liviing)


The Poem that Wouldn’t

Woven beautifully across paper
strings of words
poetically perfect
rhymed not keeping time

so they did not dance

there was no melody, no tune
they never moved
flat words
that never found their groove

so I pulled the strings
watching them unravel
suddenly dancing
as they disappeared, un

One of the most healing things you can do is recognize where in your life you are your own poison.
Steve Maraboli (via vastdistances)

(Source: onlinecounsellingcollege, via vastdistances)


Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, A Nice Quiet Place (via larmoyante)

(via vastdistances)



mcdonalds announces new variations of the happy meal including the apathetic meal, the existentialist crisis meal and the clinically depressed meal

(Source: mattressblowoutsale, via diagonels)

Never trust a writer because he is one who knows how to make things beautiful. He knows what it’s like to perfume words and feelings to make them seem nicer. He knows the strength of words and yet doesn’t really know how to use them to say quite how he really feels. More often than not, a writer will not talk at all. Writers get too good at typing onto a screen that they forget that we were born with mouths to talk as well.

WE'RE NO CLOSER THAN WE WERE BEFORE: I Love Me Before I Love You. A Poem By Me.


This is not a sad poem

Or at least I don’t want it to be

But you look at me like your eyelashes

Are carrying the Great Wall of China.


I want you to look at me

Right in the face

Right in the punched-in-the-gut

Look I’m sporting.


Right in the heart of it all

The heart that wasn’t always mine



In the hours

That used to be ours.


And I don’t want to beg

Because it’s the worst thing anyone could do

I don’t want you to think you own me

I don’t want you to see me break.


But my voice breaks

With the word



And it sounds like when you lose an earring in the sink drain

Because you accidentally dropped it

And as you hear it clamoring down the pipe

You can’t take it back

You can’t wish you were more careful

That you held on to it harder

You just hear the clamoring of the earring

And your heart.


And then you look at me like maybe you were wrong

Maybe this glass-shattering-moment

Isn’t so shattering

Like maybe all you needed was for me to say please

See me broken at your feet.


And this is the part that I have to remind myself

Over and over

That I picked myself up

Not in the way teapot shards get glued together

Because your scars only cut as deep

As I want them to.


But in the way that that word please

That filthy word please

Filthier than a landfill or those corners that the vacuum can’t get to

Is something I never want to say ever again



Nobody gets to slam the fucking door in my face.


- Erica Jensen


I wrote this poem for creative writing class, it was the first real poem I’ve ever written!


I wrote this poem for creative writing class, it was the first real poem I’ve ever written!

(Source: gilded-guns)

You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. (via bestbookquotes)

Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.
Kurt Vonnegut (via lofticriess)

(via fleuke)


She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, like when you’re swimming and you want to put your feet down on something solid but the water’s deeper than you think and there’s nothing there.
Julia Gregson, East of the Sun