Scraps of madness

-dedicated to beautiful words.

[diablocodys]

the devil was calling for her; but she was not yet ready to go home.

excerpt from ‘ g o d l e s s ‘ (via ginnys)

[finndamerons-archive]

but in our story, who is the monster at the end of the book? oh my love, the monster is time.

we are fates and worlds away / a.j. (via ohsebs)

[antgione-blog]

she kissed the moon and returned back home with a note that read: with love, the galaxy.

an excerpt from a poem i’ll never finish | a. (via antgione)

[theliteraryjournals]

We are unusual and tragic and alive.

Dave Eggers, A Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius (via theliteraryjournals)

[93myq-deactivated20170129]

your hands are wet with the blood of an empire. you lick it off.

CATASTROPHE | P.V.S. (via sarchengseys)

[kuriyakin]

this is what everyone wants: to breathe in the nectar from the mouths of their dead gods, run a finger over their sugar-dusted tongues; remember the things that didn’t happen.

ghosts, gods, and other realities (1/3) | j.y.

[girlinlondon]

Admire as much as you can. Most people do not admire enough.

Vincent van Gogh (via cattedrali)

[inkmagician]

Q: what does it mean to be a writer? A: always falling in love with the beautiful and the broken. (too often, they are one and the same.)

a.c. | question series #2 (via inkmagician)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I was deliberately lonely. I liked the edgy solitude of nighttime walks. I liked spending time on my own over a cup of coffee, looking out on a street. I discovered there was something familiar and consoling about urban shapes: a vista of umbrellas or an infantry of feet moving towards a traffic light. By day, I read Latin; at night I read Yeats and tried to write my own poetry. By day I touched the granite and marble of words. At nighttime I followed language into a land of hurt and disappointment. When I wrote, I felt the vulnerabilities of language and its exposures. I felt the strangeness of it all.

Eavan Boland, from Object Lessons: The Life of the Woman and the Poet in Our Time; “Turning Away”  (via weltenwellen)

[victoriajoan]

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait in Letters

[amarylliad]

mellifluous, here the crackle of new skin, raw fangs sink, flesh of fruit

haikus from the underworld | a.c. (via svcredstars)

[negativohollow]

[terpsikeraunos]

ancient greek word of the day: ἀστροθύτης, star-worshipper

[watchoutforintellect]

La tristesse durera toujours [The sadness will last forever].

Vincent Van Gogh - Last Words as quoted by his brother in a letter to Elisabeth Van Gogh (via watchoutforintellect)

[voidkraken]

O Achilles, You were never made a God, But you were remembered. You were remembered.

Give Patroclus my best wishes. (via voidkraken)

[wnq-writers]

I don’t think I deserve any happiness. You broke and ruined me and made me cold like you. Now I am just entering peoples’ heart and corrupting them like you corrupted me. I’m angry at you and yet I keep hurting others. You taught me a new way of living and I am loving it way too much.

queenassbitxh  (via wordsnquotes)

[diablocodys]

THE WORLD HAD BURNED; AND A GIRL WAS BORN FROM ITS ASHES. BREATHING ITS FIRE. AND TORCHING ITS MONSTERS TO THE GROUND

it sounds like a story of a girl gone mad (Mad with grief? Or power?) | excerpt from  g o d l e s s (via ginnys)