Paradoxically though it may seem, it is none the less true that life imitates art far more than art imitates life.
Oscar Wilde (via observando)
I hope one day,
Your heart is not
Trembling like
An 8.9 magnitude
Earthquake.
I hope one day,
You don’t call
Yourself a natural
Disaster.
I hope one day,
Roses hug your
Heart.
Alexa Evangelista, you deserve better (via vodkakilledtheteens)

shortandsweet:

Surprisingly, perfectionists are often procrastinators, as they can tend to think “I don’t have the right skills or resources to do this perfectly now, so I won’t do it at all.”

this is an important thing to remember.

I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it.
Audrey Hepburn  (via sighpie)
itotallybumrobertplantshair:

beatledirt:

steampunktendencies:

Abandoned Victorian Style Greenhouse

I want to go in there and read poetry for hours omg

This is beautiful

itotallybumrobertplantshair:

beatledirt:

steampunktendencies:

Abandoned Victorian Style Greenhouse


I want to go in there and read poetry for hours omg

This is beautiful

prettty-girls-make-graves:

gillyskerbz:

There is a light and it never goes out

stop it

prettty-girls-make-graves:

gillyskerbz:

There is a light and it never goes out

stop it

I remember crying over you and I don’t mean a couple of tears and I’m blue. I’m talking about collapsing and screaming at the moon.
The Avett Brothers (via girlsjunk)

rawflume:

jxntry:

daiselea:

I haven’t held your hand in eight months and the human skin replenishes every twenty-seven days. You’ve never touched this skin and I don’t think you ever will.

The caption

woah

vaccerelli:

Listen —

Let’s just go. We’re young yet, nothing but numbers, and this isn’t us. This is a dead city, a mausoleum. A library of shattered dreams. Let’s go to Italy, to Australia, to Spain, to Russia. Let’s find an old city with outpost villages. Let’s go somewhere, where the summer sun is a…

Here I sit, a product of my generation,
crying like a baby,
except now the bawling is silent, and
the tears are mixed with black specs
since I never liked my eyes anyway.

And this lit cigar:
it is my pacifier.
It dangles out of my mouth
like it was something to hold onto—

Sold.

I wish I could love. But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget.
The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde (via man-of-prose)