*points to ur lap* is this seat taken

(via luxelectric)


The day my favourite author died,
I wrote a poem about hands and
learned to love my own.

I swallowed morning like a pill
and washed it down with an afternoon
that ached of leaving.

I closed my eyes
between every conversation
and thought only of the oh damn,
the hell yeah of your spine.

I let the wind from an open window
knife me where only you had ever breathed.
I let every bus stop be home
until the lady’s voice warned about
the next one.

The day my favourite author died,
I wondered if his hand had hung
off the side of the bed with opening lines
still curled in his wrinkles.

The day he died, my bravery
was born with a sputter and a cough
and a “I’m here now, please
use me.” And somewhere, you
yawned your way into someone else’s dreams.

-Discovering Ice | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)

(via quite-insane)

My hands are blistered
from holding on too tight to
things begging to leave
-Haiku  (via plaante)

(Source: lordoftheconquistador, via magnifiquementtragique)

Don’t think about what can happen in a month. Don’t think about what can happen in a year. Just focus on the 24 hours in front of you and do what you can to get closer to where you want to be.
-Eric Thomas  (via youhauntyourbagofbones)

(Source: natural-lifters, via kiittenn)