Till the End...
Image and video hosting by TinyPic I wish words could explain the madness of my soul, the hidden desperations, worries, fears, loves, desires, dreams, hidden in the cavities of my being. I try. I write. Words upon meaningless words, hoping that one day I may be able to create some sort of tangible essence of myself. But that is far from here, and until there, I'll write. I'll pour my bloody messages into words, record them, write them, I hope you hear them. I hope you listen. But even if you don't, I will keep writing it all anyways, for myself, for my sanity, for my depravity, until the very end.


→ Aug 2014 Feeling artsy today, drawing daddy for his birthday
→ Aug 2014 How it feels to be missing you
→ Aug 2014 "[after a half-hearted suicide attempt at age 13]

When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all?

All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess.

The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly.

Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says.

Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy.

Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do.

It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin.

And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given." — Mary Karr, “Cherry” (via lifeinpoetry)

(via thegirl0nfire)

→ Aug 2014
→ Aug 2014 My super stunning little sister started her senior year today. She didn’t realize I was taking a picture. She’s actually just naturally that pretty (even with crappy photo quality)
→ Aug 2014
→ Aug 2014 whiteboynoize:

Look at how much cooler than me my girlfriend is

Look at how much cooler than me my boyfriend is
→ Aug 2014 paintdeath:

Pat Perry
→ Aug 2014
Too Much

It’s hard to be a writer 
who stopped feeling
   stopped seeing
   stopped understanding
just went along wherever
the world pushed her
and said, Ok. This is ok.
I don’t hurt, I don’t hate
   I don’t even feel sad
anymore and I can actually
   enjoy my drugs.
Not like when I thought
   too much
and wept
   too much
and hurt
   too much.
It’s a lot easier
to just go with it.
And stop feeling
   so much.
But it’s hard
for the writer inside me
still kicking at my insides
and screaming
   drowning
in emptiness. 
I have fed her nothing.
   She’s dying.

→ Aug 2014
→ Aug 2014
→ Aug 2014 vvni:

Chris Enos
→ Aug 2014
→ Aug 2014

Diamonds On the Soles of Her Shoes by Paul Simon
→ Aug 2014