one of the first things i ever posted on here. hope you enjoy

(Source: newbeatnik)

(Source: lucasedwardrollins)

redbloodedamerican:

The boy upon leaving his house and entering the world realizes he does not know how to become a man, he then asks to all who can hear,

“Who here can teach me how to become a man?”

“I”, announced the priest, as he draped the boy in robes and wisdom

The boy still feeling unsatisfied then asked…

cracksinthestreets:

On this silent night I recall
In the dim candlelight and rushing cars
Just what makes the winter nights
So tangible and distant a memory
For there are neither birds nor crickets
Rustling leaves buried deep under still snow, packed
So tightly into the ground
I once dreamed we’d walk on together
I…

(via cracksinthestreets-deactivated2)

Apple Core

workmenscomp:

[TAPESTRY]

  The sands fell to the rising winds
 and this tapestry flew us into the clouds
in efforts to show you the world
 Like the core of an apple,
  Looking in your sweet eye
   Caramel dipped, and liquor sipped
   Filthy me in this hanging hope
  Separate my fantasy and feed
 This hypnotic tonic, bubbling down
Brave-heart and boldface
 Calculable the sands sweep themselves
  And the grains rush the tapestry—
   Mind lost in one place
  Hear pumping in another

neruda33:

Between elegant penance,

through roots of

salt, indignantly melancholy,

shedding the balcony

(twice). Him, rejects

the stark cold,

the costume of

dead dawn.

.

Voice descended

in butchers of

formidable silence.

Gulp spirits and sing;

marrow of safety

opened, nailed,

generating an…

August

likeacactustree:

we spent the heat of summer by the river

spinning webs of dreams and

polluting minds, mirroring the water,

stepping over broken glass and 

the rotting fish that littered the shore

eyes glazed and skin rusted like the

people that some of us would become. 

papayapie:

We’re in a gray lecture hall,

he says write for about ten minutes.

There are always flowers and trees,

but I’m no Robert Frost.

If we’re brave, the birds and the bees—

but I’m no Walt Whitman, either.

The Lady in her tower has already died,

The goblins don’t offer me…

White Noise

shesanargonaut:

The silent screams of

the monotonous dreamer

have filled each rosy crevice

of my incessant mind with

the ancient calls of the

dusted earth as it creaks in

soft waves,

shifting priority into the

place where flawed perfection once

solidified

in every tremor,

the last pieces of cracked inhibition

falling to the exemplified wayside.

In solitude, we find simplified sound;

in the white paper noise of

instantaneous secretion,

we know what was never lost

has finally been found.

apoemadaykeepsthezoloftaway:

I lived in a tenement

around 78’

where the electricity

would go out

every thunderstorm

and we, the tenants,

would gather on the platforms

of the stairwells

and spread blankets

over the cold tile

and John, who had been to jail,

and worked as a short order cook,

would…