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we change, we fuck up , we grow up, we love, we hurt, we are teenagers, we are still learning... everyday is a new adventure
won the sperm race back in 95' and no fucks given since then
live for today is the motto

lunacanis:

Click, Click, Click
Thoughts to letters
Letters to words
Words to eloquent sentences
That once created
Seem to have minds of their own
Pushing you to create
More and more like them
So that in an almost human way
They don’t have to fear being
Cast out away from their own
Into an otherwise empty page

mattinator-inator:

  1. Make stupid bets with me at 2 AM.
  2. Hold my hand often as possible, as we’ve been together for 64 years
  3. As i hold you and we drift into unconsciousness play with my hair as if we were making love.
  4. Create a playlist for making out.
  5. Play fight with me.
  6. Spend hours getting lost in the old smell…

I want to be free,
I want to escape the chains that bind my heart back into my chest, forcing it to stay there while the anxiety consumes it like a hungry animal and my heart it pounds, it fights, but in the end the panic takes a bite of me with famished force and vicious teeth it likes what it tastes and keeps going until I am eaten alive

I want to be free,
There’s more to me than what I’ve created in this cage I’ve trapped myself in, can’t leave the house, just not ready, can’t take a picture, just not pretty there’s a life outside of this disease that plays tricks on everyone else and word games on me, in my head, not good enough, simply not good enough

I want to be free,
Endless nights of clawing at my scalp and trying to let the monstrous thoughts out I am not expandable nor elastic I do not stretch I am like a rubber band if you pull me too hard I will snap in half I will break I am not able to hold all of this pain in I will explode

I want to be free of the nights that keep me awake wondering how I lived through the nightmare of the day and how I’ll survive the dreams of past lovers that are worse than the ones where I die I don’t want to miss my ex anymore and I don’t want to choke on my own truths when I’m trying to say them I want to make everybody understand how hard I’m trying to survive myself and that is the last thing that will ever happen and the problem is, I know it I know it I know that and maybe the impossible will become possible when I’m three feet under, finished from the disease, impacts suddenly prevalent to them and me, finally free

matthieufrncr:

Sordid fellows we misers of dreams
Who counter to catch every cold of the wave
Who know things like words and derision and plight
Whose scars could paint murals on neurons or walls
Whilst tales so few for those happier to snatch
That sequels feign parables in their putrid wake
The fables we’ve already carved deep in bruised knees
The mangled and militant desires we quell
The words we won’t say yet hastily write
The magic we scribe without breaking a sweat
Yes we sordid few, who catch every tilt
And true them with our spindly hands
Our pedagogy inky ‘round pens black with memories
Whose dreams never wander or wither
Or grow
We sordid few are but narrow for this calculated world

matthieufrncr:

Sordid fellows we misers of dreams

Who counter to catch every cold of the wave

Who know things like words and derision and plight

Whose scars could paint murals on neurons or walls

Whilst tales so few for those happier to snatch

That sequels feign parables in their putrid wake

The fables we’ve already carved deep in bruised knees

The mangled and militant desires we quell

The words we won’t say yet hastily write

The magic we scribe without breaking a sweat

Yes we sordid few, who catch every tilt

And true them with our spindly hands

Our pedagogy inky ‘round pens black with memories

Whose dreams never wander or wither

Or grow

We sordid few are but narrow for this calculated world

jemspark:

The Soul of the Public Library

The soul of the public library
Is practically palpable
A cushion of dense
Nutritive air
Providing simultaneously
Safe haven
And lightening rod
Regardless of your origin
You simply walk through the doors
Find space 
And begin
To enjoy
To learn
To apply
To earn
To think deeply
To debate
To prepare
To feel safe
To come together
To get away
To get your life in order
To avoid the rain
To dream
To share
To observe
To prepare
To get off the street
To grieve
To research
To dream
To play games
To connect
To discover new worlds
To affect
And as you do
Fragments of your soul
Are quietly contributing
To the everlasting soul of the library
As did the souls that came before
And as did those that chose
To compose themselves down
On paper, bound

jemspark:

The Soul of the Public Library

The soul of the public library
Is practically palpable
A cushion of dense
Nutritive air
Providing simultaneously
Safe haven
And lightening rod
Regardless of your origin
You simply walk through the doors
Find space
And begin
To enjoy
To learn
To apply
To earn
To think deeply
To debate
To prepare
To feel safe
To come together
To get away
To get your life in order
To avoid the rain
To dream
To share
To observe
To prepare
To get off the street
To grieve
To research
To dream
To play games
To connect
To discover new worlds
To affect
And as you do
Fragments of your soul
Are quietly contributing
To the everlasting soul of the library
As did the souls that came before
And as did those that chose
To compose themselves down
On paper, bound

ashleymater:

Tippi Benjamine Okanti Degré, daughter of French wildlife photographers Alain Degré and Sylvie Robert, was born in Namibia. During her childhood she befriended many wild animals, including a 28-year old elephant called Abu and a leopard nicknamed J&B. She was embraced by the Bushmen and the Himba tribespeople of the Kalahari, who taught her how to survive on roots and berries, as well as how to speak their language.

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