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“For language to have meaning there must be intervals of silence somewhere, to divide word from word and utterance from utterance. He who retires into silence does not necessarily hate language. Perhaps it is love and respect for language which imposes silence upon him.”

— Thomas Merton, “Disputed Questions” (via mirroir)

(Source: litverve, via rub-raw)

9:08 pm  1,456 notes

Why not fall in love?
by Anonymous

brianashanee:

I got shit to do

4:30 pm  63,336 notes

1. This town, with its bleeding jaw, gutted my childhood. I buried my grandfather last summer in a citrus field, and I have not been able to eat oranges since. I still remember his cloudy cataracts, his gentle hands. He told me there was beauty in being untouchable – this is why I lock the doors.

2. Some love is soft, I know, but not this kind – this kind slams drawers and ignores the screaming. Your mouth was like formaldehyde. Your hands were silver scalpels, were ragged teeth. Do not touch me with your liar’s bones. I hope she tastes the poison you keep tucked under your tongue for the girls you want to break. I hope that, when she leaves you, you have no one to pick up the pieces. I hope you rot in this town.

3. I spent sixteen tangerine winters in this city like split knuckles, like an open wound, and I can still taste the burning. I want to eat Manhattan and climb through its throat to Chicago. I want to touch the very ground God walked upon. When asked what I want for Christmas, I say miles, miles, miles.

4. I keep breaking bones just to get back up. The band aids on my knuckles are from punching walls and slashing tires. They never have the chance to heal. I do not know what I look like without violence on my palms.

5. This town – bleeding jaw, split belly. Town like childhood, town like funeral bells. Town like angels dying. Town like your eyes, bruised and blackened. You were not gentle with my heart, so I hope that you rot in this gutted city, with your mouth clasped to hers. I hope she sucks out your soul: I want you broken. I burnt down your heart long before she loved you – you are a monument, yes. But you are not beautiful, your ribs are a ruin, and when you kiss, it tastes like smoke. This is why I left you. This is why I lock the doors.

— 5 Reasons I Lock the Doors | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

10:30 am  730 notes

thewallgroup:

Luma Grothe photographed by Blaise Reutersward for Styleby, Fall/Winter 2013. Makeup by Zenia Jaeger. Hair by Anthony Campbell. 

7:47 pm  3,920 notes

thewallgroup:

Luma Grothe photographed by Blaise Reutersward for Styleby, Fall/Winter 2013. Makeup by Zenia Jaeger. Hair by Anthony Campbell

1:30 pm  1,679 notes

(Source: urban-korea, via yjns)

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time.

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it’s raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,

Listen to me as one listens to the rain.

— Octavio Paz, from Listen To Me (via violentwavesofemotion)

12:01 pm  297 notes

“I walked home,
Chanted the first lines of this poem,
And committed them to memory.
And if a few strangers thought me crazy

For writing poetry, aloud, in public,
Like another homeless schizophrenic,
Then fuck them for wanting clarity
And fuck them for fearing mystery.”
-Sherman Alexie, from “Mystery Train”

— (via ahuntersheart)

10:30 am  157 notes

1:30 pm  1,468 notes

12:00 pm  385 notes

(Source: death-by-elocution)

Do you believe in always, the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe
, the rain answered.”

— e.e cummings, from you said is (via violentwavesofemotion)

10:30 am  1,929 notes

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