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wasted

I am from closed  blinds
From punched holes and patched walls
I am eroded red brick
Porch steps crumble like bones
I am from screeching chains of swings and slides
Park benches at dusk
Trash cans rusting curbside
I am from loathe and disgust
From fear

"And you became like the coffee,
in the deliciousness, and the bitterness and the addiction."

-  Mahmoud Darwish (via orguns)

(Source: hadeiadel, via jesussbabymomma)

call-0f-duty:

.
carolinayres:


“I can’t get no satisfaction”

When I was in a psychiatric ward there was a girl two beds away from me that used to do this. She’d do it for hours, just sitting there and rocking.
One day, I asked her why she did it. 
“Because it takes me away”
“Away from what?”
“This place”
When i started doing this on one of my therapy sessions, my shrink told me to keep doing that, because its a way to calm yourself.

"There are poems inside of you that paper can’t handle."

- Y.Z (via fluffynips)

(Source: rustyvoices, via m-o-k-u-r-e-n)

"I’m a fountain of blood. In the shape of a girl."

- Björk (via terramantra)  (via grandmothercat)

(via wylona-hayashi)

mortisia:

“Nature is a haunted house - but Art - is a house that tries to be haunted.” 

Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems

(via wylona-hayashi)