have you any dreams you'd like to sell?

sydney. 15. i should be doing homework. talk to me, lovely.

leviathans-in-the-tardis:

you don’t realise how much tumblr has changed your view on things until you spend time with friends who don’t have tumblr and they say something and you’re just like

oh

(via hisprettybaby)

angle-of-depression:

nothingcorporate:

opinions on abortions are kinda like nipples

everyone has them but women’s are a little bit more relevant 

But all you ever see are men’s

(Source: uncooler, via theseoverusedwords)

mangowho:

barrowmans:

omfg so today I saw a man and a woman holding hands in public, i mean i don’t have anything against heterosexuality but don’t flaunt it in front of me, think of the kids omfg

I don’t have anything against it either. I really don’t. My best friend is straight, but like, keep it in the bedroom you know?

(Source: oncebarrowmans, via guy)

curvellas:

tumblr made me a much more tolerant and less judgmental person like my cousin be like “omg look at that bitch eyebrows she drew them damn near in her hairline” and i’m like shrug maybe the bitch wanted to have eyebrows in her hairline you don’t know shit about her life.

(via theseoverusedwords)

"This is the Only Love Poem I Know" -valentina thompson (via theseoverusedwords)

(via theseoverusedwords)

This is the kind of love poem
that cleans my name from between your thighs—
only to lay it back into your mouth gentle, and inviting, so that I might just hear the sound of me from you again soon. Maybe broken, maybe croaked and vulnerable in the quiver of your descent but if I didn’t crack something inside of you between these sheets tonight then clearly I’m not finished yet. I’d like to say that this – this is all rust, all familiar, all been-there-before and stained-worn over time; but tell me, does it scare you as much as me to say that all I see when I see you is rain? Sky, and rain, and rain. All fresh; all foundation, nothing but tender against my cheek despite the cold. This, this isn’t a love poem that gets dirty, but one that instead stands with bare feet in the clinging mud after your dark, lust storm and says I’d love you so hard you’d grow from it. I am transparent for you, all sweaty palms and unlocked knees.

This isn’t the kind of love poem that knows temporary, this isn’t the type of love poem that takes you once and dresses itself up again in the pre-dawn light; this is take me home to your parents and make love to me from across the room over childhood pictures; this is set our past, our broken on fire and slow-dance upon the ashes; this is: if my heart’s more resistant than my core when it comes to letting you inside of me, knock the door down, break the glass in—I dare you, make a mess of me.

baby:m....m...m
mom:mama? ma? mommy?
baby:m...m...
baby:m..mY ANACONDA DONT

Oscar Wilde  (via escapably)

(Source: sunst0ne, via 69shadesofgray)

She lives the poetry she cannot write.

Charles Bukowski (via observando)

and our few good times will be rare because we have the critical sense and are not easy to fool with laughter.
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