pleasure-seekers


untrustyou:

Francesca Way
apollosky:

philosophyandthearts:

René Magritte - ‘The Annunciation’

fave paintings
"Elegy Owed", Someone I couldn’t keep loving

you on long bus trips, upon charters
I shouldn’t have gotten on, leaving me, against your will
at the station where both of us had to return home, and home
meant different spaces
I paced Creekside Circle four times before you came out your doorway
and disappeared again, and I thought how far away it felt from
being right there, right behind me, cradled palms over my waist,
head tilting back to tuck beneath your chin
drags of your cigarette, 27, 27. 27.
and to this day, whenever i’m offered a cigarette
of copper labels and double the nicotine, it exhausts in one breath,
because we were fleeting, a Chase and Burn
giving out unfairly, too soon, forgetting the sweetness
of the yuca you brought me,
thanksgiving
in a classroom
caught in the rain our first kiss
when the people on the train applauded
I think, they should have booed me off stage
because a symphony couldn’t continue.
i tried to believe this was right, we were right
but your face grows foggy, and for that I’m sorry,
but we were flower dew waiting to return with mourning
and i couldn’t resist picking the roses, and the rose colored glasses
and turning to other cheek to the brightened new day,
this new intoxication, and for that too, I’m sorry
but he came sunlit and revitalizing, digging his roots beneath my soil
to pull me up through to survival.
I guess we needed room to grow and fresh air to breath, and a different aftertaste
and I’m sorry, last time, but this is the best I know


A line of roses lines the street where Michael Brown was shot
"if she only wants you, don’t worry about who wants her"

(Source: gold-kushkloudz, via k--swan)

fohk:

“Existence. Well, what does it matter? I exist on the best terms I can. The past is now part of my future. The present is well out of hand”
Control (2007)Anton Corbijn natgeofound:

Jagged peaks slice through snow and ice at the South Pole, Antartica, August 1956.Photograph by Jack Fletcher, National Geographic
goldenveil:

‘Pigeon feeding near Blue Mosque’, 1991, Steve McCurry
sickpage:

Bryan DerballaPortraits
hausdurchsuchung:

friedrich von borries bathroom coresdocaos:

Andara Sanches
Reverie

he said
that when life got good,
the writing got bad, and when our lives got bad,
the writing got good.
so i look around, absorbing the streaks of red, and brown
antique collectives all around your house,
at displaced things that belong there
and me too, once.
i believed then
i should be so lucky
to finally get what i want
after years and years of
pleading
of obedience
of living in an endless daydream
of a free future, still too far on the horizon
mismatched and plucked off the earth,
his things stare at me
and i revert back to thirteen year old self,
when i thought i could never amount to anything worthwhile,
when i was sixteen,
when they flocked and exclaimed all around me,
and still endings remained my only confidant,
i see myself last winter, raggedy and unconditioned, 
smaller than the most withered sea-stone
belonging neither to the ebb nor tide
nor sand, in neutral reverie
ravaged by a tug of war, a civil war
daydreams only
of the ocean floor.

©
pleasure-seekers
pleasure-seekers


untrustyou:

Francesca Way
apollosky:

philosophyandthearts:

René Magritte - ‘The Annunciation’

fave paintings
"Elegy Owed", Someone I couldn’t keep loving

you on long bus trips, upon charters
I shouldn’t have gotten on, leaving me, against your will
at the station where both of us had to return home, and home
meant different spaces
I paced Creekside Circle four times before you came out your doorway
and disappeared again, and I thought how far away it felt from
being right there, right behind me, cradled palms over my waist,
head tilting back to tuck beneath your chin
drags of your cigarette, 27, 27. 27.
and to this day, whenever i’m offered a cigarette
of copper labels and double the nicotine, it exhausts in one breath,
because we were fleeting, a Chase and Burn
giving out unfairly, too soon, forgetting the sweetness
of the yuca you brought me,
thanksgiving
in a classroom
caught in the rain our first kiss
when the people on the train applauded
I think, they should have booed me off stage
because a symphony couldn’t continue.
i tried to believe this was right, we were right
but your face grows foggy, and for that I’m sorry,
but we were flower dew waiting to return with mourning
and i couldn’t resist picking the roses, and the rose colored glasses
and turning to other cheek to the brightened new day,
this new intoxication, and for that too, I’m sorry
but he came sunlit and revitalizing, digging his roots beneath my soil
to pull me up through to survival.
I guess we needed room to grow and fresh air to breath, and a different aftertaste
and I’m sorry, last time, but this is the best I know


A line of roses lines the street where Michael Brown was shot
"if she only wants you, don’t worry about who wants her"

(Source: gold-kushkloudz, via k--swan)

fohk:

“Existence. Well, what does it matter? I exist on the best terms I can. The past is now part of my future. The present is well out of hand”
Control (2007)Anton Corbijn natgeofound:

Jagged peaks slice through snow and ice at the South Pole, Antartica, August 1956.Photograph by Jack Fletcher, National Geographic
goldenveil:

‘Pigeon feeding near Blue Mosque’, 1991, Steve McCurry
sickpage:

Bryan DerballaPortraits
hausdurchsuchung:

friedrich von borries bathroom coresdocaos:

Andara Sanches
Reverie

he said
that when life got good,
the writing got bad, and when our lives got bad,
the writing got good.
so i look around, absorbing the streaks of red, and brown
antique collectives all around your house,
at displaced things that belong there
and me too, once.
i believed then
i should be so lucky
to finally get what i want
after years and years of
pleading
of obedience
of living in an endless daydream
of a free future, still too far on the horizon
mismatched and plucked off the earth,
his things stare at me
and i revert back to thirteen year old self,
when i thought i could never amount to anything worthwhile,
when i was sixteen,
when they flocked and exclaimed all around me,
and still endings remained my only confidant,
i see myself last winter, raggedy and unconditioned, 
smaller than the most withered sea-stone
belonging neither to the ebb nor tide
nor sand, in neutral reverie
ravaged by a tug of war, a civil war
daydreams only
of the ocean floor.

©