Last Seen Blogs
captkatecastle
stana katic
rococo444
coco
9wonnih
preii
ignitingashes
Virtue has a veil, vice a mask. ~Victor Hugo
popculturalcomparisons
Has Anyone Ever Compared...
Text
61K notes
·
View notes
Text
18K notes
·
View notes
Text
Trying to get big on a budget? Always missing your daily protein goals? Miss the childlike wonder of hide and seek? There are bugs in your house. Eat them.
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
Three Songs of Shattering
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I.
The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.
Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw, — it must have been
Very pretty.
II.
Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so ’tis spring; —
But not in the old way!
I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.
If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so ’tis spring —
But not in the old way!
III.
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going — ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, —
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!
182 notes
·
View notes
Text
a very beautiful māhoe stripper moth (Feredayia graminosa) - 27.01.24.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
starting a collection
links to each post - please go show some love <3
12K notes
·
View notes
Text
"this too shall pass" well can it fucking get on with it
90K notes
·
View notes
Text
Actually the real reason I transitioned was because my parents joked so many times about returning me to the child store I decided to void the warranty.
13K notes
·
View notes
Text
HEART TO HEART by Rita Dove
It’s neither red
nor sweet.
It doesn’t melt
or turn over,
break or harden,
so it can’t feel
pain,
yearning,
regret.
It doesn’t have
a tip to spin on,
it isn’t even
shapely—
just a thick clutch
of muscle,
lopsided,
mute. Still,
I feel it inside
its cage sounding
a dull tattoo:
I want, I want—
but I can’t open it:
there’s no key.
I can’t wear it
on my sleeve,
or tell you from
the bottom of it
how I feel. Here,
it’s all yours, now—
but you’ll have
to take me,
too.
0 notes
Text
Recipe for Happiness
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
One grand boulevard with trees
with one grand cafe in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups.
One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you.
One fine day.
1K notes
·
View notes