1. inanotherdirection:

    So it is lust reached forth from vanity that embroils us in fiery pillars of cherry-red calamity.
    As to take by force at cost of hopeless agony.
    The desperate death that can not be achieved is veiled upon us in putrid irony.
    Now the nights rustle with tombstone drifts amongst naked trees.
    Ashen skies cloak the day with spent embers of burning humanity.
    Laughter being the siren of madness; as it once was in joy, is not even a memory.
    Heaps of corpses like grey sands at a wandering edge of the blackest sea.
    Half melted faces from thrown sabers intercontinentally.
    Not even tears to drip from the sunken from eyes of starvation nor screams, for it is but groaning of a remnant, without hope of life, that for death do plea.

    [submitted by coldicehotwater]

    The End continues with a bitter end, taking no prisoners, offering no quarter. Could this be the true end, the dead end? We’ll have to wait and see.

  2. शवासन

    No matter how else
    You may pose.
    So balanced,
    So lithe,
    So strong.
    It all comes down to

  3. 16:35

    Notes: 332609

    Reblogged from textbookjazz

    Tags: hi-hijacknyuk nyuk







    i hate americans and their stupid fahrenheit temperatures

    i only made this post in the hopes that someone would reblog it with the caption “don’t fahrenhate” and you’ve all disappointed me greatly

    don’t be a celsiass

    its too fahrenlate 


    Thank you for your contribution

    I wanted to add something, but came up with absolute zero.

  4. Sunday at the Writers Place — Shine

    It’s that week in the second half of the year where the sun shines right down your street as it comes up. The sky so clear and the angle so direct that the street and the people on it seem to give off their own light. The dew on the grass is throwing dazzles, and the thin leaves of the trees let the light through with a filter of life.
    Everything is in high contrast. Everything moving moves more. Anything stationary is more clearly still. Whatever you look at sustains a presence that goes right up to its border. The world seems real, palpable, and willing to announce itself.
    When you get to the Place, you’re lucky enough to get a window seat, and you look out with your hands warming in the light streaming in. You feel real, palpable, and willing to announce yourself.

    This morning, we’re thinking about how the light this week makes everything seem more dramatic, wondering where that comes from, trying to make something of it. We’ve got the jukebox all filled up with sunlit songs.

    You hurry up to finish, and go out to find a place to sit in the sun.

  5. The soundtrack to this week’s Writers Place post.

    (Source: Spotify)

  6. Up and at ‘em!

  7. Morning cup


    Although my love for you
    will last beyond ten thousand years.
    I have grown tired of attempting to express it with words.
    My feeble poems will never approach
    the edge, of the shadow,
    that is cast by my feelings for you.
    Words will never do.
    How can i put the greater, into the lesser?
    How can the ocean be contained
    in a tea cup.


    Any ocean, every cup.
    The world, each stone.
    All life, this breath.