13/8/2014 . 14,020 notes . Reblog
breakfast-with-satan:

clockest:

I HAVENT STOPPED LAUGHING AT THIS 

greatest thing ever

breakfast-with-satan:

clockest:

I HAVENT STOPPED LAUGHING AT THIS 

greatest thing ever

8/8/2014 . 463,821 notes . Reblog
What would happen if we stopped trying to capture moments that are meant to capture us?
7/8/2014 . 14 notes . Reblog

shortfilmmasterpieces:

Still Life

7/8/2014 . 242 notes . Reblog

sizvideos:

Watch it in video

Follow our Tumblr - Like us on Facebook

7/8/2014 . 464,012 notes . Reblog
7/8/2014 . 24,366 notes . Reblog

"Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
because that was the name of his dog

And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo

And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X’s

and he had to ask his father what the X’s meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”

because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint

And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed

when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.


Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question”
because that was the question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A

and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle’s Creed went

And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her

but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem

And he called it “Absolutely Nothing”
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn’t think

he could reach the kitchen.”

7/8/2014 . 1 note . Reblog

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.


It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)
7/8/2014 . 226,997 notes . Reblog
7/8/2014 . 343,065 notes . Reblog
stfukarla:

♡ i follow everyone back ♡

stfukarla:

♡ i follow everyone back ♡

7/8/2014 . 35,853 notes . Reblog
7/8/2014 . 370,301 notes . Reblog
Endless roadtrips leaving America

Endless roadtrips leaving America

29/7/2014 . 0 notes . Reblog

I’m laying in bed alone, wearing the sexiest pair of underwear I own.

17/7/2014 . 4 notes . Reblog

books-cupcakes:

library-heaven:

arashian-emu:

i-love-mmfd:

finnepicslice:

themaidenofthetree:

I want you to imagine a ten year old version of yourself sitting right there on this couch. Now this is the little girl who first believed that she was fat, and ugly, and an embarrassment.

Get this post to 1 million notes.

Omg. Let’s do this!!

Always reblog.

I need to watch this show like asap

Let me tell you, it’s the best show ever. 

17/7/2014 . 374,656 notes . Reblog
I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.
F. Scott Fitzgerald (via wordsnquotes)
17/7/2014 . 3,733 notes . Reblog