On top of mini mount si
15 April 2012 4:51am 3 notesLittle knowledge is gained without risk
— Professor Ardai
6 April 2012 1:16am 2 notes That’s itYes, I want to travel the world.
I want to view the stars from the other side of the earth.
I want to sail the seas.
I want to build houses in another country.
I want to make love in France.
I want to meet Lauryn Hill, and Bill Clinton.
I want to be an extra in a movie.
I want to do it all, but I’d trade it all to explore your world.
I’d trade it all to be able to set sail across your whole body.
I’d trade it all to listen to your heartbeat and breathing duet while you sleep.
I’d trade it all to rise and fall in your arms for the rest of my life.
Seattle
1 April 2012 1:31pm 0 notes fill my heart with a smileempty it with a lie
23 February 2012 11:15pm 1 noteSorry for how my heart behaves when you’re around.
18 February 2012 1:28am 1 note
word.
(Source: swervereckless, via tiltingtheframes)
14 February 2012 12:00am 17,414 notes[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
9 February 2012 2:44pm 25 notesJet | Look What You’ve Done
Oh, look what you’ve done
You’ve made a fool of everyone.
Oh, well, it seems like such fun
Until you lose what you had won.
Give me back my point of view
‘Cause I just can’t think for you.
I can hardly hear you say
What should I do?
Well, you choose
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
1 February 2012 12:43am 28 notes oh, how i love, you loveAtmosphere - Don’t Ever Fucking Question That
Don’t ever fucking question that. Don’t ever fucking question that. Don’t ever fucking question that. Don’t ever fucking question that. Don’t ever fucking question that. Don’t ever fucking question that.
Enough to hold you to the brightest of lights, to place you dangerously close to that sun. Enough to acknowledge the flaws you can’t ignore, and recognize the cause of what’s done is done. More than enough to put my name behind my ideals, and neglect my logic twice daily. Enough to keep me looking for my Lucy in the sky with gems when I remember how you used to call me baby. Enough to look in my mirror with detest for every tear you shed regardless of why you wept. Enough to curse any man who can’t appreciate the depth of the ocean I swam till I ran out of breath.
I love you, don’t ever fucking question that! That’s why we’ll probably never get along. If I was better at finding the right words to say, I wouldn’t need to write
these mother fucking songs. I love you. I love you. Never, don’t ever fucking question that. Don’t ever fucking question that.
Riding the public transit, I study the blank stares to answer my questions of how and why I got so many grey hairs. I take care of the nervous that runs through my extension cord, and I reflect on that reoccurring dream where we met the Lord. Single file lines, to give her a pound, one at a time, but when I faced her, I attempted to embrace her, she looked so fine. I awoke from my sleep before her bodyguard had a chance to beat me to submission, and I still walk with my religion. I watched the children scurry in circles around a two-way mirror, worrying about which side of the glass projects the reflection clearer. Hear the whispers of the wind trying to get me to grin, gassing me up about the love that I plucked and I’ve been stuck within. For every eclipse that stares at me from the other side of a paper cup of espresso, I light a match beneath a kettle. And for every set of lips that become attached and equipped with that program to seek success, I bleed my ethics out a slow drip.I know a man who met a woman. Don’t remember where. Big, beautiful eyes and light brown hair. She was from the burbs, he was from the south side of the city, this was back when Franklin avenue was still pretty. Two different worlds apart, but the world is just a small town. We all know how people like to get down. Here we go. Aquarius. Pisces. Feel the flow of the fluid as I swim through it to free my soul. Bush shoved the cane without the glove numbed the pain. The magic from up above what it does for the brain. Make the love, paint the picture, write the song. The player met a virgin, made a Virgo, named him Sean. Make the love, paint the picture, write the song. The player met a virgin, made a Virgo, named him Sean. Make the love, paint the picture, and write that song till the break of dawn.
I love you, don’t ever fucking question that! That’s why we’ll probably never get along. If I was better at finding the right words to say, I wouldn’t need to write these mother-fucking songs. I love you, don’t ever fucking question that! That’s why we’ll probably never get along. If I was better at finding the right words to say, I wouldn’t need to write these mother-fucking songs. I love you.
Make the love, paint the picture, and write that song.
I love you.. I love you..
clinched to the thin thread that holds us together
sliced my flesh
leaving my hands as open as my heart
…
1 February 2012 12:21am 2 notes Wish it was as easy asGoing to a restaurant and ordering love in a wine glass.
But it’s not.
26 January 2012 3:04pm 1 note What happens if you fall in love with a writer?Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.
But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?
This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
(via myinkstainedheart)
21 January 2012 3:35am 25,840 notesHim: what are you up to?
Me: trying to take over the world. one man at a time.
Him: ha, is that so? What’s taking you so long?
Me: I’m stuck on you.
attempts to write the song of the heart, but instead, rips your heart out and writes yours.
17 January 2012 3:17am 3 notesIf heaven had a height, you’d be that tall.
— Common
11 January 2012 7:30am 6 notes