Text

She dipped her hands in hearts
And drew them back with blood
A prince around her pinky
A thief upon her thumb

To blot them and to bleach
Their garnet guts she tried
But stubbornly they stuck
And like a lacquer dried

Quote
"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am large - I contain multitudes."

— Walt Whitman (via michaellottner)

Quote
"You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that."

Edna St. Vincent Millay (via debourbon)

Text

In placid pools, a hornet
With devastating whim
Laid down his sweet small honey cheek
But had not fins to swim

In lustrous, lethal waters
I saw that little bee
His humming wings became still things
He had not gills to breathe

Text

July

Too much lost in July
A love, a life, a faith
Too great a cost, just shy
Of wreck, of doom, of grave

Too little in July
To have, to horde, to save
Too brittle, this outline
Of spirit, soul, and name

Too lasting is July
A seal, a scar, a stain
E’er casting its deep dye
In mind, in bone, in vein

Oh, leave us, loathed July
Lest we forget to brave
Your reign, for fear of losing sight
Of distant, different days

Quote
"To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour."

— Oscar Wilde (via poetry-and-insomnia)

Photo
studio2212:

Uncertain (2010)
Rorschach on found Art
Artist - Bryan Ray

Ink

studio2212:

Uncertain (2010)

Rorschach on found Art

Artist - Bryan Ray

Ink

Text

Looking at letters
Like far, foreign things
If language be venom
I starve for it’s sting

Waiting for words
Like a lost, laggard tide
If poems be nectar
I’ll drink ‘til I die

Photoset

shes—mad-but-shes—magic:

Sketches

Pining to paint a portrait

Quote
"What if I told you I’m incapable of tolerating my own heart?"

— Virginia Woolf, Night and Day (via petrichour)

(via )