you'd let her (mis)lead you off of a cliff.

{A continuous collection of smudged screens and illiterate ink.}

A rush of two bodies and
of heat and of blood.

A rush of adrenaline
already too trippy
for your speed.

Save her, if you can.

There’s some chanting in the
background and everyone
is ready.

Is she ready for you?

She’ll say she is
but don’t believe her.

She’ll make you promises,
but don’t indulge.

There is wine from
her goblet

she’s pouring it
towards your mouth.

And your hands-
so heavy.
So filled with fury
and longing.

Don’t indulge.
Don’t lose yourself
in the music.

Don’t pass out
from the blood
rushing and pumping
at the base of your throat.

—   "A Rush" {2011} By Radha Kistler (via floatinginthethoughtstreams)

“You’ve been so accustomed to your lips
only touching your mug each morning that
the thought of them touching another person’s
skin unsettles you. You will walk out the door
with a scarf around your neck and “nobody” in
your mind except the anxiety that haunts your
every step. Passing others on the street, but
never to look up and make eye contact because
god forbid if you see another pair of eyes admiring
yours. You’ll sit alone in class with your head in a
book or your mind lost in music, you’ll look around
to see everybody’s got somebody, except for you.
I mean, who cares anyway, right? People are just
people, they aren’t permanent. They always leave.
At least that’s what you’ve told yourself more than
a thousand times in the stillness of the night when
the only thing your tongue is craving is to taste the
feeling of company. So when you get home you’ll
kick off your shoes and fall on your bed, you won’t
let that one person back into your head. Being
alone is okay, being alone is good, being alone
helps you think. Yet thinking is what is killing you,
suffocating you. You check your phone every ten
minutes even when you know no one has called,
no one has texted. You’ll convince yourself it’s
only a habit, when this habit only formed because
deep down you’re hoping, hoping for someone,
anyone to take away the loneliness.”

—   i.c. // "I’m content with loneliness."
"Are you really?" (via delicatepoetry)


lets fuck in an art gallery 

i mean you deserve to be pinned up against a wall 

you are a masterpiece 

(via verrloren-reblogs)

“When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn’t make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. ‘It’s all right,’ we whisper, ‘I’m here, I love you.’ and we lie: ‘I’ll never leave you.’ For just a moment or two the darkness doesn’t seem so bad.”

—   Neil Gaiman, Neil Gaiman’s Midnight Days (via larmoyante)

(via 7-weeks)

Anonymous said: Do you have any tumblr crushes?


Well, obviously 7-weeks is my bae and nobody can really top that.

I also have writer crushes on heldinhishands, theglycoproteingarnetportrait, aquietjoy2 and many more because damn, I can’t write that well.

As far as what you’d consider actual crushes? No.

“You sometimes have to lie to yourself in order to get over things.”

—   My grandma (via captainfries)

“Woke up unhappy.
First time in a while now.
Think it’s here to stay.”

—   getting bad again

“i cannot help thinking
that if i’m not enough now
i will never be enough for you
don’t you see how i have
climbed from the pits
of hell to be with you?
have you not watched as
i forced myself to stay alive
even when every instinct
told me to cut my throat?
and it was all for you
but alive is not enough
no, i must be perfect
i must be social and intelligent
beautiful and poised but
i am none of those things
and every time you push me
a little voice whispers to me
“it would be so much better
if you were dead, huh?””

—    i’m alive for you when i don’t want to be, can’t you grasp how much of a sacrifice that is? (m.g.t)


smeared across the mouth, thrown behind the shoulder, stampede over glass bones by roaches and maggots alike. I don’t have any good experiences with others. None that I can hold onto. I cannot divulge the smiles people have given me because smiles and genuine kindness are commodities that are few…

Today is the one year anniversary of my brother’s suicide so I would like to post this piece in his honor.

Be free, little brother, be free

Throw off your shackles
and fly

Embrace the love
you could never find
but was always there

Come visit me
in my dreams

Know that,
wherever you are,
whatever your form,
you are, exactly,
what you are supposed to be

My darling little brother,
you always were


Max Mundan, Prayer (for Matt)

© David Rutter 2013

Follow me on twitter @dmr226

(via maxmundan)

(via maxmundan)

I lost faith when I lost you.
God felt like a layer of clothing,
A layer of extra warmth in the winter
Whose name you capitalize like Gucci or Prada,
But you walked away in the heat of the Summer
And I realized that the only thing that could save me from The Devil
Was the realization that The Devil doesn’t exist
And maybe you didn’t either.

I started to think that graveyards look like ruins,
But I was shipwrecked by my own rotten nature,
Sunk in the ocean of the heartbroken and the depressed
While Jesus was busy spoiling himself in the Land of the Father.

When fish look up at the cusp of the sea,
Do they think Heaven is beyond that Great Unknown?
That’s what it feels like to look at you now.

On a park bench you lost her,
On that park bench I lost everything,
So I sit there in my dreams just to traipse the line of Life and Death again,
Standing up on sea-legs with a ribcage shaped like anchors.

And I begged God to stand back up on wobbling knees,
Praying just to see him smile again,
Desperately calling out His name just to know that the piece of me in the piece of Him hasn’t died with the image of perfection set up long ago.

And I knew the entire time that I worshipped something that was not,
Just an excuse to kiss his feet
And baptise him in the waters that I’m sinking in.

And you learn that you mistook love for lust, now love begins to feel like atheism.
God smells like intoxication,
God drives like a schizophrenic,
Taking seven different directions and forgetting how to hold the wheel.
Love fades, Gods die.
In the ruins of yourself you hear the honking horns echoes in a distance you traveled long ago.

I lost faith when, three days later, God didn’t rise.
I lost faith when the stone was too heavy for me to roll away.
I lost faith when they made my cross out of the shipwreck,
And the only reason I float on the sea is because wood is lighter than water.

I confess,
I don’t know if there’s a world above me,
But Heaven and Hell died long ago and here we stand.
I don’t want to see your lips speak hymnals in another mouth.

I have nothing else to confess to you,
But Heaven help me, I love you so much,
God, damn you to Hell so you can live in all of me.


The Ruination of God

This poem is something that’s really personal to me, because when I fell out of love I ended up losing faith in basically everything. This poem is not meant to disregard or attack anybody’s religion, and I don’t mean for it to offend anyone’s faith if it does, I have a deep respect for any sort of religion and I do personally acknowledge the existence of God, this is just about what I’ve gone through in relations to heartbreak/atheism/other shit.

I might also make this a slam poem, but I’m not sure yet hahahah

- Sean

(via 7-weeks)

(via 49dusks)

attention followers!!!


as many of you know, i write poetry. my poetry is set to be published in magazines in the future, and i have had fiction published in the past. i do NOT get paid for my writing, though it is one of my passions! if you love my writing and want to support me, PLEASE donate just $2 a month or more! anything counts and you can cancel your subscription anytime! REWARDS AND GOALS ARE GIVEN AS WELL.

read more here:

“Now hear my screaming,
far too quiet, far too loud,
all of it inside.”

—   Daily Haiku #167 Jared M. (via remnantsofapoet)

(via remnantsofapoet)

My throat will always
from engulfed flames
I spit fire
I spit acid
my words aim to kill.

There will always be scars.
Some things
should not
be removed.
Some things
remind us
why we have survived,
why we keep

My fingers will always
but I am not a weak girl.
My stomach will always churn

but I am not a weak girl.

—   Michelle K., Weakness. (via michellekpoems)


sorry i only like people that i never have a chance with

(Source: guy, via thetalkingcigarette)