nevver:

Endless Summer, Ian Francis

(via russian-snow-princess)

#art  

kurgs:

skeletongrazed:

skeletongrazed:

what’s the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants ?

one’s a crusty bus station and one’s a busty crustacean

#i’ve told this joke a million times and it NEVER fails

(via russian-snow-princess)

Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It’s like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can’t stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.

#quotes  

Fall

I will never fall for you,

but my angel,

I will rise.

Misunderstanding

fundamentaldisconnect:

I keep smashing clocks
Expecting that time should stop
It’ll work one day

#poem  

loish:

process of this piece.

(via jeanox)

#art  

Thursday, September 18, 2014

sesaluna:

The professional
Trouble-maker in us wants
To see what happens

#poem  #sesaluna  
#art  

xnogodx:

Christopher McKenney

Website
Facebook
Instagram
Flickr
500px

(via the-haunted-pony)

#art  
Stone
—
Melancholy memories
have turned this angel into stone,
seeping in and ossifying,
changing flesh to bone.
—
But if you take a closer look,
you’ll find she’s not alone;
sitting still for such a time,
a bit of lichen’s grown.
—
The lichen’s etching into her,
lending her a darker tone,
sharpening her suffering
and silencing her moan.
—
Although she’s screaming out in pain,
you’ll hardly hear a groan
if you come to gaze on her,
upon her broken throne.

Stone

Melancholy memories

have turned this angel into stone,

seeping in and ossifying,

changing flesh to bone.

But if you take a closer look,

you’ll find she’s not alone;

sitting still for such a time,

a bit of lichen’s grown.

The lichen’s etching into her,

lending her a darker tone,

sharpening her suffering

and silencing her moan.

Although she’s screaming out in pain,

you’ll hardly hear a groan

if you come to gaze on her,

upon her broken throne.