tennants-hair:

gogogadgetspoons:

planetlonely:

skrilleton:

a bicycle can’t stand on its own bc its two tired

Are you fucking serious

no he died in the 5th book

what happened to this post

(via sarcasticasshat)

(via thatstitsbro)

daxnorman:

nothing as it seems, but everything as dreamed

(via thatstitsbro)

(via thatstitsbro)

suculents:

(via shellmakeafoolofyouall)

megachikorita:

there was a big drug problem at my school so they hired a police officer to supervise students but now he’s playing magic the gathering with the video game club


 

(via rivlarwriter)

What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are — underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

Sandra Cisneros  (via coffeekaling)

(via coffeekaling)

I do not use the word home lightly.

So when I sigh it into the crook of your neck,

Believe that your spine is a timber frame,

Your kiss a welcome mat,

And your enveloping arms my front door

I mean in the best way possible that I am my own wife but
tonight, I wish that my heart could belong
in the palm of someone else’s hand. Or in the background drumming
of a band on a road towards nowhere. I am not scared
of losing you. I am scared of what I will do to get there.

My hair has been a hundred colors in the last year
all an in effort to displease the people who stared at me
at parties. It worked. Now I wear black lipstick. Now I open
glass bottles with my bare hands. You ask me why I have been
alone for so long. I tell you that there’s nothing wrong with me
and that isn’t a lie. I embroider psalms into notebooks.
I am a dull girl.
Won’t you kiss me?

And I am trying so hard to be
pretty, and soft, and homey,
but there are bombs under my fingernails and gun shells
in my tongue. And every war I’ve fought I’ve won.
I am trying so hard not to scare you, but I am a bomb.
So here I run with open arms. Here I run with every scar -
I am open. I cannot hide myself like other girls,
I am a broken arrow. I borrow lines from better poets.
I am too honest not to show it.

Know that no, I am not scared to lose you
but I am scared of scaring you with the kiss in my lips if I call you some day
and we both have nothing to say.

The Sort of Fear That Doesn’t Have a Name by Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)

(via sonyayee)

(via thepasswordisiloveyou)

I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys.

Rudy Francisco, A Lot Like You (via alotlikeyouu)

(via widdlefox)

snapchatting:

don’t worry, i wrote a rap specifically for this occasion

(via morganfreemanfreckles)

georgemallory:

nothing will fuck you up as much as the realization that there’s no real reason the alphabet needs to be in order

(via shellmakeafoolofyouall)

underground-hip-hop-community:

Dj Abilities, Eyedea, Slug. This….this doesn’t need anymore words.

(via gods-bathroom-f1oor)