Il y a des livres qui vous rendent plus sages et plus intelligents : on peut lire de la philosophie de notre époque qui fait réfléchir , en flânant et sans s'ennuyer
Mike Driver

shark vs the universe
will byers stan first human second

oozey mess
Jules of Nature
No title available

pixel skylines
todays bird

gracie abrams

★
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

Love Begins
taylor price
YOU ARE THE REASON
noise dept.

Kiana Khansmith

JVL
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

No title available
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@natalillii
Il y a des livres qui vous rendent plus sages et plus intelligents : on peut lire de la philosophie de notre époque qui fait réfléchir , en flânant et sans s'ennuyer
Big waves hitting the shore
while I sit on the beach
and adore nature's beauty, salty air.
Children cheering joyfully,
gasping, giggling happily,
yelling for their moms to look at them
jump over the crashing waves.
Smaller children digging holes or collecting shells,
while onlookers eat their fruit—
gossiping about women's deformed bodies,
while their own body lacks collagen and elasticity,
wrinkling into the grave.
Slowly deteriorating minds
hold on to lies of the ghosts of the past,
wondering why their relationship to their offspring
is severely damaged by their dangerous ignorance
and false victimhood.
Suffering in a pseudo-state of a healthy mind,
faking warmth and motherly love,
lacking strength to give hugs,
shaking in disgust.
Weak whispers of hatred and utter disappointment,
losing senses of freedom and independence willingly.
Laughing ugly faces eaten by darkness.
Demons messing with perception,
planting seeds of delusion.
Corrupt sisterly bonds,
matrix harmony disrupted,
war memories unlocked, smelly breath of decay.
Money is thieves and gore,
bloodshed for an inheritance.
It was their will to sacrifice for wealth,
but in the moment,
it's only gossip about summer bodies.
Narcissism at its finest.
Parkinson's is the price witches pay
to immature dependence on a monstrous intellectual
that deceived them—
calculated and witty.
Abusing and spending on the finer things in life
on troubled turf,
right next to the graveyard.
Click clack, click clack.
His chains were tightened.
Shut out daughter, left alone
in the dark basement of closeted skeletons.
All for ritzy trips and studious lectures,
brilliant church concerts and choir gatherings,
hiding behind empty words and promises.
Messed up behaviors,
brutal liars,
sickening opinions that ruled the household.
Overprotective enabler, boots licker,
enmeshed entities obstructing reality.
Twisted memories,
lost opportunities,
snapping in pain and agony,
crying out to a void of disbelief—
abandoned early.
Springtime (also known as Woman Reading) (1872) by Claude Monet (French, 1840 – 1926), oil on canvas, 50 cm x 65.5 cm (approx. 20 in x 25.8 in), the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, Maryland
~ Featuring Lilac and Lavender ~
Frequently the woods are pink-
Frequently are brown
Frequently the hills undress
Behind my native town.
— Emily Dickinson
My photography, please leave credit. :)
Un libro para jugar con Keith Haring
“You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.”
-Albert Camus ☕️🌙
(Art: Greg Mort, “Sun, Moon and Stars,” 1999)