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These kids are so amazing. ❤️❤️❤️❤️ I’m so proud.
I think part of what bothers me about anti-millennial rhetoric is that it never provides a solution. It simply places blame and moves on. “Killing the cereal industry” doesn’t follow with how to have more time for breakfast, or how to feel about the fact Kellogg’s was created to be purposefully tasteless. “Killing the housing market” okay how do you fix institutional bias against race how do you make enough on minimum wage to afford a house how do you pay taxes on that house. “Killing the diamond industry” how do I stop people from dying for those diamonds or deal with false inflation.
Just tell me. If it’s all my fault, how do I fix it. Because really, realistically, I’m avoiding buying certain things because I don’t have the money or moral ambivalence for it. So instead of blaming me, tell me what we are supposed to do.
See, but if you do. If you start trying to figure out “why arent they spending their money on a lie we sold them” - maybe you’d figure out the solution isn’t just to say “it’s their fault and they owe us an apology and gratitude.” Maybe you’ll figure out the problem starts with you.
“I love with my throat exposed”
— Natalie Sharp, from “[Molar Concentration],” published in Puerto del Sol
My god, says the head to the beating heart,
How many times must I bury you?
Oh love, says the heart, blood mixed with grave dirt.
At least once more.
you know what I mean
“Holy places are dark places. It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them. Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood.”
— C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces (via lyrasoxford)
Chiara Bautista - https://thereachiarabautista.deviantart.com - https://www.instagram.com/chiarabautistaart - https://www.facebook.com/chiarabautistaartwork
Farmer witch and wolves under the moonlight!! Thank you very much for the support and happy new year everyone!
Praying Drunk
by Andrew Hudgins
Our Father who art in heaven, I am drunk. Again. Red wine. For which I offer thanks. I ought to start with praise, but praise comes hard to me. I stutter. Did I tell you about the woman whom I taught, in bed, this prayer? It starts with praise; the simple form keeps things in order. I hear from her sometimes. Do you? And after love, when I was hungry, I said, Make me something to eat. She yelled, Poof! You’re a casserole!—and laughed so hard she fell out of the bed. Take care of her. Next, confession—the dreary part. At night deer drift from the dark woods and eat my garden. They’re like enormous rats on stilts except, of course, they’re beautiful. But why? What makes them beautiful? I haven’t shot one yet. I might. When I was twelve, I’d ride my bike out to the dump and shoot the rats. It’s hard to kill your rats, our Father. You have to use a hollow point and hit them solidly. A leg is not enough. The rat won’t pause. Yeep! Yeep! it screams, and scrabbles, three-legged, back into the trash, and I would feel a little bad to kill something that wants to live more savagely than I do, even if it’s just a rat. My garden’s vanishing. Perhaps I’ll merely plant more beans, though that might mean more beautiful and hungry deer. Who knows? I’m sorry for the times I’ve driven home past a black, enormous, twilight ridge. Crested with mist, it looked like a giant wave about to break and sweep across the valley, and in my loneliness and fear I’ve thought, O let it come and wash the whole world clean. Forgive me. This is my favorite sin: despair— whose love I celebrate with wine and prayer. Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees, that nature stuff. I’m grateful for good health, food, air, some laughs, and all the other things I’m grateful that I’ve never had to do without. I have confused myself. I’m glad there’s not a rattrap large enough for deer. While at the zoo last week, I sat and wept when I saw one elephant insert his trunk into another’s ass, pull out a lump, and whip it back and forth impatiently to free the goodies hidden in the lump. I could have let it mean most anything, but I was stunned again at just how little we ask for in our lives. Don’t look! Don’t look! Two young nuns tried to herd their giggling schoolkids away. Line up, they called. Let’s go and watch the monkeys in the monkey house. I laughed, and got a dirty look. Dear Lord, we lurch from metaphor to metaphor, which is—let it be so—a form of praying. I’m usually asleep by now—the time for supplication. Requests. As if I’d stayed up late and called the radio and asked they play a sentimental song. Embarrassed. I want a lot of money and a woman. And, also, I want vanishing cream. You know— a character like Popeye rubs it on and disappears. Although you see right through him, he’s there. He chuckles, stumbles into things, and smoke that’s clearly visible escapes from his invisible pipe. It makes me think, sometimes, of you. What makes me think of me is the poor jerk who wanders out on air and then looks down. Below his feet, he sees eternity, and suddenly his shoes no longer work on nothingness, and down he goes. As I fall past, remember me.
To those of y’all who are whining and complaining about how Judge Rosemarie Aquilina was “too harsh” on larry nassar……….. READ THIS THREAD. READ IT 2 TIMES IF YOU HAVE TO.
I CANNOT REBLOG THIS ENOUGH.
Artist Daniel Rarela creates “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” memes to stop people from whitewashing MLK
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thank you anderson cooper 🇭🇹
“i don't know when love became elusive what i know, is that no one i know has it my fathers arms around my mothers neck fruit too ripe to eat, a door half way open when your name is a just a hand i can never hold everything i have ever believed in, becomes magic. i think of lovers as trees, growing to and from one another searching for the same light, my mothers laughter in a dark room, a photograph greying under my touch, this is all i know how to do, carry loss around until i begin to resemble every bad memory, every terrible fear, every nightmare anyone has ever had. i ask did you ever love me? you say of course, of course so quickly that you sound like someone else i ask are you made of steel? are you made of iron? you cry on the phone, my stomach hurts i let you leave, i need someone who knows how to stay.” ― Warsan Shire