FRANCOPHILE

Meghane. 17. Québécoise
poeticasvisuais:

Alexander Calder with “Edgar Varese” and “Untitled” , Saché, France, 1963

poeticasvisuais:

Alexander Calder with “Edgar Varese” and “Untitled” , Saché, France, 1963

(Source: boyirl, via pilumnus)

“So, what if, instead of thinking about solving your whole life, you just think about adding additional good things. One at a time. Just let your pile of good things grow.”

Attachments, Rainbow Rowell (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

(Source: anditslove, via smoke-stungeyes)

“You, rising through the top
of my tea like bergamot
in Earl Grey, leeching to
my tongue and invading
my mouth, my heartrate
slowing, my knees relaxing.
It’s a wonder
I haven’t fallen in love
with you sooner than this.”

“It’s you. When all my dreams come true, the one I want next to me. It’s you.”

– Lucas Scott (via stormswithskin)

“The truth is all my poems are disturbing. The truth is I don’t write about happy because when I’m happy, I’m too busy singing. When I’m happy, I’m too busy laughing. When I’m happy, I don’t want to lock myself in my room and bleed onto my notebook. And anyway, no one wants to share their happy. We are greedy with our happy. We hold it to our chests and strangle it between our fingers. It can’t breathe but it is ours and this is enough. That’s why I write about sad. Because sad is 2 for 1 in the bargain bin. Sad is take all you want, there’s plenty to go around. Sad is sit with me and bleed because I’m dizzy from how much this hurts and I could really use a glass of water. Could you bring a glass of water? I’m writing about sad again and my tongue is turning to dust in my mouth. My heart is rotting to ruins in my chest. Think Coliseum. Think Pompeii. Think something much less dramatic and much less glamorous. Think garbage spilling out of a can into an abandoned street and the dawn light is weak and nothing is illuminated and there are no shadows. I’m writing about sad again and my fingers are tired.”

Fortesa Latifi - I’m writing about sad again (via madgirlf)

(via thetalltwig)

helenakuehnemann:

"verschwommen" © H.K.2013
Have a look at my other pictures:http://helenakuehnemann.tumblr.com/

helenakuehnemann:

"verschwommen" © H.K.2013

Have a look at my other pictures:
http://helenakuehnemann.tumblr.com/

(via vvni)

“I loved him. I loved him.
I could have loved him an entire lifetime,
but life has a funny way of changing plans
and changing people until you can’t really recognize them anymore.
Even the days you swore you’d always remember
are begging to be forgotten eventually.
We all have phantoms we are trying to fall out of love with,
so here’s to the ghosts in the next room,
here’s to the parties we never danced at,
the people we never kissed,
and all the time we didn’t spend in love.
I wonder how many people could have chosen me,
could have carried me past the threshold of a house
that isn’t haunted and stayed there because they wanted to.
It’s a strange thing to know that even the living
aren’t all really alive at the same time.
And it’s a shame we couldn’t have all loved each other
the way we talked about,
with our hearts and our skin and our hands
and no time for sorry or polite or please.
I can’t tell you how many times I showed up
in the wrong dreams looking for his face.
One of these days my own will come back to me.
I just can’t remember what it looked like
when he wasn’t the one touching it.”

– Y.Z, haunted limbs (via rustyvoices)

(via backshelfpoet)