sweet beans

poe | 21 | i believe it's time to leave me to the ether my dudes

[detailedart]

[maracllea]

Detail of Head of a Woman with the Horns of a Ram (1853), by Jean Léon Gérôme.

[mocimori]

Strawberry Mob is best Mob

[autumndewilde]

[barapoe]

long time no see, yall ;D what are the big fandoms these days i gotta make some fanart i need the inspo

[killbukowski]

a snaked tongued cowardice curls into my empty belly. call it a viper, call it venom.

this swallowed silence echoes in my throat, reminds me of all the poems i never wrote, the ones i could never bring myself to write. 

i was already born with a broken heart so i had no tears to cry. i should’ve done this months ago-

cut the tongue out, left the teeth marks. 

- Should’ve Done This Months Ago (S.L.)

[hamotzi]

commission for @austronaught-icecream!

[just-shower-thoughts]

The female equavalant of “morning wood” , would be “morning dew”.

[kniivila]

I doodled this out a while ago but it’s always at least a little relevant to life.

[barapoe]

thin fingers grasp at broken bottle necks.  liquid spills past jagged edges  to resonate with the rosy warmth of your mouth. cover your eyes,   and imagine something like that home you cut your lips on. 

[striders]

[guccimermaid]

me, reading my tarot cards: what’s up today fuckers

cards: I see you haven’t fixed your life yet bitch

[bokkuns-deactivated20180626]

[aoca]

[barapoe]

i.  eyes soft, they breathe:  water tumbling over rocks like silk falling from their hands,  that milky froth that rises around slippery feet.               as the tide falls, it drags you underneath. 

ii.  you can’t feel your feet against the floor, against carpet, wood,                                   against rocks, against rocks ---  the rush of blood leaves your fingers cold and the sun bursting through your temples.           everything quakes. ( you’re not sure if it’s the world around you                                   or you, yourself. )                   but still those eyes, soft, appear to you, and they breathe:                          look at me. even if it’s a mirage of me,                          be fooled by me. just be okay for me. 

[midsumner]

stargaze till pale flowers bloom under your eyelids till roses grow against the dusky glow of your cheeks for you are soft as supple silk and all of Paris couldn’t rein in your  laughter

venera / name poetry ; no more please. (via versaillcs)

[lifeinpoetry]

… rusted metal, blood wrapping around the head of a train, and I want to blame all sadness on the moon—it’s red meat dangling above us.

Kayleb Rae Candrilli, from “Crescent Line #20 and the Blood Moon Is Still on Us” published in Beech Street Review (via lifeinpoetry)

[barapoe]

shit got me reinvigorated for that hidekane i’M alive again