Fresh white canvas birth. City smog shades me in grey. Country fields start to tint me moss. And art just seems to bloom in rainbow hematomas beneath my skin. Life, breathing colour into my body. And maybe that’s why growing old just happens to terrify me, because people end up sepia-toned as they start to shed different hues like adorned scales. And you ask me why I would ever both with tattoos...
We are asleep with compasses in our hands. ” ― W.S. Merwin– (via ul11)
Sam Humphries' singular possessive apostrophe:... →
librariesandlemonade: Do you remember when we met in Gomorrah? When you were still beardless, and I would oil my hair in the lamp light before seeing you, when we were young, and blushed with youth like bruised fruit. Did we care then what our neighbors did in the dark? When our… I wish I could write like this.
Find what you love and let it kill you.– Charles Bukowski (via therealvagabondking)
We all have scars. Even after we’ve healed from our betrayals, mishaps, and...– Tenth Avenue North Member (via jpaige)