"I NEED SOLITUDE FOR MY WRITING. NOT LIKE A HERMIT- THAT WOULDN'T BE ENOUGH- BUT LIKE A DEAD MAN." -KAFKA


methlabrador:

whats the meaning of life? son, its those little tiny pumpkins. the ones that are mad small.  you know the ones i mean. 

(Source: mattressblowoutsale)

(Source: cyberrshawtyy)

from surviving love by josh bell.

from surviving love by josh bell.

(Source: streetworldview)

Edge

The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga, 
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

—Sylvia Plath, 1963

(Source: ttrram)


Stress marks, 1999, by Elinor Carucci.  

Stress marks, 1999, by Elinor Carucci.  

(Source: azurea)

what a waste, I could have been your lover.

I’m sorry, I’m awful, I’ve just felt so terribly destructive all week. It’s awful. I’m horrible.
 J.D Salinger, Franny and Zooey (via feellng)
I have stitched life into me like a rare organ.
—Sylvia Plath, “Three Women,” from The Collected Poems (via easymomentsandobsession)

(Source: lifeinpoetry)

some darling hydrangeas in my front yard.

some darling hydrangeas in my front yard.

[I] became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
—Anne Sexton, from The Break Away  (via violentwavesofemotion)

(Source: victoriajoan)

God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of ‘parties’ with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter—they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you for so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment, and companionship—but the loneliness of the soul in it’s appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.
—Sylvia Plath (via lil-ith)

15 minutes with you, I wouldn’t say no.

summer in the city, I’m so lonely, lonely, lonely.