1-800-Crushed

  Proses, Quotes, Poetry..  

[thelovejournals]

You look like a winter night. I could sleep inside the cold of you.

Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless  (via wordsnquotes)

[thelovejournals]

I will kiss your scars as you heal, I will sit by your side and hold your hand. I will write invisible secrets and paragraphs and maybe a book into your skin at night, while you sleep warm next to me.

Unknown (via wordsnquotes)

[the-book-diaries]

And whether you like it or not, I belong to you.

Franz Kafka, Letters To Felice (via the-book-diaries)

[buttonpoetry]

I noticed that words have gravity. I’ve seen them crush people.

G. Yamazawa - “Elementary” (NPS 2014)

[theliteraryjournals]

I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.

Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (via theliteraryjournals)

[teacup13-deactivated20200319]

darling, the thing about loving people is, when they leave you, they never really go away, this skin is just a book I haven’t finished reading & yes, the sky always seems deeper when I’m following sadness back into your eyes; I have longed for silence, but never yours, all I wanted was a place under the stars to call home

[buttonpoetry]

Do you ever give second thought to breathing?

Trey Amos - “Short Story Long” (via buttonpoetry)

[hinasyeda]

Whether it’s positive or negative. Don’t make it dramatic. Don’t sugar coat it. Don’t put a positive spin on it. Don’t make up excuses about it. Don’t hesitate on it. Don’t make up stories to dilute it. Don’t play with words to divert attention from it. Simply, be truthful! –H.

[verrloren-deactivated20191031]

call me crazy, call you storm

you linger in the distance like a thunderstorm outside, the watercolor clouds curl and twist whites into grays

there’s a tugging in my chest, imagine that – imagine the humid air pulling at my bare skin until i want to start clawing at the open edges

some days i imagine myself crumbling into your open palm when it comes to you, it’s all haze and my back on hot pavement

so bring on the rain

[opticallyaddicted]

物の哀れ | “Mono no Aware” Photography by Gabriella Achadinha painting by Marlize Eckard                             

An awareness of the impermanence of all experiences and memories, an almost nostalgic, wistful acceptance of that which cannot be forever held onto. The phrase has become an aesthetic sensibility in Japan, an understanding that this beauty can only be ephemeral. Traveling personifies this, no matter how many photographs one takes, the more time slips the less of that experience can be recalled. Shot around central and southern Japan / Okinawa, the series by Gabriella Achadinha shows day and night photographs of spaces and individuals that stood out from the time there. Marlize Eckard has added her touch by creating the ‘fleeting impermanence’ via acrylic paint with additional strokes that create the smudging, lapsing memory. Via Ignant

[crushed-things]

Read this [ musing ] called 'Guilty victim' by Shraddha Bansode here -

[idontlikedicktionaries]

REBLOG IF ITS OKAY TO TALK TO YOU.

[just1c3-is-s3rv3d-deactivated20]

Please please do

[katie-archive]

When my time comes, forget the wrong that I’ve done, Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed. RIP Chester Bennington (20th March 1976 - 20th July 2017)

[crushed-things]

Friend: Yeah, I'm not really a book person.

Me with blood shot eyes from crying and lack of sleep, empty wallet from buying books and paying overdue library book fees, aching body from constantly being in an uncomfortable reading position, emotionally drained from reading that heartbreaking scene, overwhelmed from the mountain of books on my TBR: You poor unfortunate soul.

[crushed-things]

Dairy entry 4:49 AM

I am feeling nothing at all.

[buttonpoetry]

Watch the video for, “Notes on Staying”, by Hieu Minh Nguyen.     

[smakkabagms]

whilst wields of sway in the  willow wizen

moonwolf wanders the wane white waxwork of winter thus she sang of collapse and the swallow of meadow’s dream  the sapweeping weasand of the yew ,                                            now you turning the bleachedbones of memory’s grate dispirited

we leave the garden                                         at last    to where the woodland wends its whelm of pine & wisteria

& animal prints announce                     noun & verb morning & instinct  by the shallow waters of departure witness of wretched & wicked hands

/ that hold / or let go

listless beneath the yellow yawning air