The Bitter Sweet Moments That We Call Life...
  • ambroseharte:

    If I touched you with my words,
    if you paused for just one moment
    of your hectic, busy day,
    then the effort has been worth it,
    to reach across the void,
    to touch you
    with the words I say.

    If I brought a teardrop to your eye,
    if you absently
    wiped away a tear,
    was it my distant words
    that evoked…

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  • (via ambroseharte)

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  • ambroseharte:

    A ghost is walking on my grave
    and an icy shiver runs down my spine;
    I know the ghost from somewhere
    and it preys upon my mind:
    who it is, or who it was,
    and why it walks upon my grave
    why it has chosen me to haunt,
    these are answers that I crave.

    Through the graveyard gates you walk,
    you place…

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  • vintageeveryday:

    Bookstore in London ruined by an air raid, 1940.

    (via collegecouplestuff)

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  • "

    My want is not beautiful.

    She is hard and she
    lies, bares her teeth
    at promises and drives
    pins into my sides
    when she does not
    trust the things she
    is reaching for.

    She has claws like
    kitchen knives with
    a thirst for open
    mouths and shaken
    souls; she will cut
    you open and hold
    your heart between
    her teeth before
    you understand that
    she only means to
    love you.

    She will say she
    loves you; she lies,
    she lies, she lies.

    She was conceived
    in the early mornings of
    my earliest memories
    and given a complexion
    like desperate carvings
    in public school desks,
    begging to be granted
    permanence or legitimacy
    or an “I love you” simply
    because the time it took
    to make them look

    We all want to be
    carved into something.
    We all want people to
    wonder what was so
    special about the sound
    of us, why it was so
    essential to someone
    that we be said out loud
    by lips that would never
    know us.

    My want is decorated
    with lacerations, proud
    of the person she never
    asked to be torn into.

    She is mangled,
    she is not beautiful.

    She is the most
    spectacular piece
    of me.

    explaining what it is to be a woman torn open, Emma Bleker (via stolenwine)
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  • 6-1-5:

    a haiku a day (257/365)

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  • "I hope one day
    somebody loves you
    so much

    that they see violets
    in the bags under your eyes,
    sunsets in the downward arch
    of your lips

    that they recognize you
    as something green,
    something fresh and still growing
    even if sometimes
    you are growing sideways

    that they do not waste their time
    trying to fix you."
    "So Much" Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)
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  • mimickingmaelstroms:

    Everything sounds strange inside an empty room.

    A whisper sounds like snakes hissing inside your ear

    a snake hissing sounds like the wind and the wind

    sounds like screaming, but there is no wind and

    the only screams here come from your head.

    I guess this is what it’s like between you and I

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  • "I can’t believe you don’t know that you are more than you are.
    Every time our hands meet I swear I am touching a star."

    Sparks (K.P.K)

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  • lllnomadlll:

    Bukowski | 40x50cm | Graphite on paper

    If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it.

    Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.

If you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it.

If you’re doing it because you want women in your bed,
 don’t do it.

    If it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
 don’t do it.

    If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, 
then wait patiently.

    If it never does roar out of you,
 do something else.

    Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, 

    unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it.

    Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it.

    When it is truly time,
 and if you have been chosen, It will do it by itself

    and it will keep on doing it until you die 

    or it dies in you.

    There is no other way.

    And there never was.

    Charles Bukowski

    Artprint by FineArtAmerica available here

    For more of my art visit me here:

    Website | Shop Facebook | Instagram | Pinterest

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  • You Know What’s Funny?

    I write poems about her and paragraphs about you.

    She’s got me frazzled, flustered and all over the place. She excites me to the point that my thoughts become fragmented, poignant one liners - representative of me clutching at straws because I’m drowning in my feelings for her. Each line of poetry is a breath I’ve managed to take before the waters of emotion and desire cover my head once more.

    I write a lot about you. I write solidly about you. My heart is full to the point of overflowing. I am certain of you. My words are not frail, my sentences are not incomplete… Because my undeniable love for you harbours all of my mortal strength and has proven to be unbreakable. My thoughts and feelings about and for you are not victim to uncertainty. My words are bold and robust… And relentless. I could write novels about you.

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  • Ins & Outs

    For the first time in a long time, the pain that comes with being apart from you has not boiled over into suffering. Instead, I have committed to calling it inspiring. I’ll fill the gaping cavities between your visits to my reality with the appreciation of the beauty found in the darkness instead of a sense of contempt for it.

    Perhaps I’ll come to enjoy your absence and perhaps I’ll come to forget you. Perhaps I’ll only grow to love you more - for the time space you occupy and for that which you dare not enter in to…

    For your ins and outs - for all that you are and all you not.

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  • New wallpaper. Missing my boy. Missing home. #missing #home #puppy #instapets #retrieversgram #wallpaper #bae #baby #myboy #homesick #meh #grumpy #sigh #pale #instasize #nocrop (at Stellenbosch University)

  • (Source: sunnydaysseemfaraway, via fvjk)

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