Caught up in a brief pause Spiritual and deep cause Gluttony and excess Running from the real stress
Drawing by Claire Milbrath, Lyrics from Moth Like Me, by Guerilla Toss
Jules of Nature
KIROKAZE

⁂

No title available
Misplaced Lens Cap

if i look back, i am lost

tannertan36
d e v o n
wallacepolsom
No title available
YOU ARE THE REASON
Stranger Things
Peter Solarz
AnasAbdin
styofa doing anything

Discoholic 🪩
Three Goblin Art
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
tumblr dot com
Keni
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@cipheress
Caught up in a brief pause Spiritual and deep cause Gluttony and excess Running from the real stress
Drawing by Claire Milbrath, Lyrics from Moth Like Me, by Guerilla Toss
Crawling from the serpent in the water
The mirror, the what have we become?
Song: Animal Collective - Defeat
art by me
Trees said their smarts aren't in the books they wrote Wooden notes
https://on.soundcloud.com/NuwjM
その手で Sono te de (By the hand)
壊して Kowashite (Break it)
Art by Unknown (I couldn’t find the creator), Piece/Lyrics/Quote by Breakbeats
Are you ready? Ready, only my best friends use the coke, pot, crack, Pow!
What you need is a nick You pull out the prick You pull out the stick
Art by Yyhely Hälvin, Photo by Me, Piece/Lyrics/Quote by Animal Collective, Forest Gospel
Spanish bands use all the echo Persian kitties better stay out of the train Glad you brought your food on Eat it like it's going to get away Your coffee sure is getting colder The seats are getting fewer Place is losing space You could win a rabbit, you could blow an island through the rib
A fine, deadly flower prowls,
thorns grow in place of petals,
leaving it solitary and untouched.
Lyrics from a song I’m making.
A sword through me burst out like a flower,
The weight of death is heavy and sour.
It’s not worth anything as the tie burns my wrist,
I’m a fighter, or I was, but now I can’t even hold a fist.
An unexpected hand falls into mine,
Calloused fingers bring me up from lost time.
Morose and felt of sempiternal fruitlessness,
A pummeled bird is left foreign.
Sweaty and haggard from saving,
Clad in crimson and stygian wear,
He wraps his tidings, others say it’s carelessness.
The small bird isn’t a cretin,
His flock may postulate diversely on that,
It’s routine denouncing.
He knows; He knows his worth,
But decides to tarry and stays still,
Whether or not he has ties,
The fragile bird is gaunt,
Yet cannot think of a consciousness without his wrongdoers.
For he is still infatuated by this fabrication.
Flared brume glosses the fervid ocean,
A plangent visage sleeps into everlasting repine.
He took the name to save a man, Tried to live up to the name, Yet seemed to fail. He was the one whose name was taken.
“But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?”
-Fire & Ice Sonnet 30 by Edmund Spenser
“so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams. “
Equally fascinating and eerie. ‘The return’ by @luna.ana.art. . . . posted on Instagram - https://ift.tt/2QeO5zs
Meow, meow, meow. Void, void, void.
Callused hands affirm reassurance, fingered wrapped deep into lumens of chalked up thoughts.
Lightning flash–what I thought were facesare plumes of pampas grass