Despite what you’ve read, your sadness is not beautiful. No one will see you in the bookstore, curled up with your Bukowski, and want to save you.
Stop waiting
for a salvation that will not come from the grey-eyed boy looking for an annotated copy of Shakespeare,
for an end to your sadness in Keats.
He coughed up his lungs at 25, and flowery words cannot conceal a life barely lived.
Your life is fragile, just beginning, teetering on the violent edge of the world.
Your sadness will bury you alive, and you are the only one who can shovel your way out with hardened hands and ragged fingernails, bleeding your despair into the unforgiving earth.
Darling, you see, no heroes are coming for you. Grab your sword, and don your own armor.

werewolfzero:

How many Hogwarts boys do you think Madam Pomfrey has to fix every year because they messed up trying to cast an Engorgio on their dicks

(via yourroyalpenis)

roughrimjob:

me tryna flirt

image

(Source: organmeat, via spork)

le-claire-de-lune:

secondlina:

twodefenestrate:

bombaycake:

rraaaarrl:

"I do not hate men, Sub-mariner. I merely know I’m as good as they are.”

FEMINISM: a definition

Always reblog

I need this as a poster.

I would adore this as a poster. 

le-claire-de-lune:

secondlina:

twodefenestrate:

bombaycake:

rraaaarrl:

"I do not hate men, Sub-mariner. I merely know I’m as good as they are.”

FEMINISM: a definition

Always reblog

I need this as a poster.

I would adore this as a poster. 

(via lumpapotamus)

official-plagueknight:

THIS IS MY AESTHETIC 

(Source: fedoraaura, via swoleginger)

to live in this world

you must be able
to do three things
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

Mary Oliver (via observando)

(via hannahkayc)

nivalingreenhow:

when McGonagall finds out that Ginny is pregnant, and that the Weasley and Potter bloodlines will converge, she marks on her calender the day the child will turn 11 and that is the day she retires 

(via hannahkayc)

My heart wants roots. My mind wants wings. I cannot bear their bickerings.

E. Y. Harburg    (via lucasta)

(Source: king-atlas, via malikov-dennis)

I want your Monday morning
sleep soaked eyes
dream drenched voice,
lazy bones
‘five more minutes please babe.’

I want your Tuesday afternoon
coffee break,
glasses off, laughter on
‘just hold me for a while
it’s been a hard day.’

I want your Wednesday evening
fingers through hair
teeth nibbling nails
neck craning, eye glazing
‘this paperwork never ends’

I want your Thursday night
drinks for two
bones unbind
muscles let loose
flats, slacks,
‘just me and you’

I want your finally Friday
stretch soul smile,
sun sipping light
from the glaciers in your eyes
fingers unfurl, hand extends
‘c’mon babe, lets go wild’

I want your weekend.
your movie marathon Saturday
reading by the fireplace
kissing in the blankets
want your Sunday morning
orange juice and pancakes
white sheets, tender skin
hair like the Fourth of July
‘let’s not get out of bed today.’

I want your ordinary
and your stress, rest, release
I want your bad day and that terrible night
I want you drunk in my arms
forgetting the place but never my name
I want your lazy and your lonely
and your fist full of fight
I want you everyday
in every way
for the rest of my life.