smaugnussen:

and I would walk 500 dogs and I would walk 500 more

(Source: spoopysmaug, via geniusly)

Monday with 109,033 notes / reblog

“Please don’t tell dad.”
you are six and I am eight,
keeping the bugs at bay and leaning forward
over the murky pond in our forest in Virginia.
Today we are hunting for frogs -
racing to find the fattest to bring home
hidden in our sweaty chubby palms,
to hide in the pillowcase of our least favorite cousin
who is visiting from the country, and is in the first grade, and has not yet learned
how to pray
before eating, or how to say
our last name without an accent.

When you slip and fall, I do not catch you
and I am so scared watching you sink
that for twenty seconds after I do not think
to call for help. When our mother runs
and jumps
into the murky pond she is sobbing.
While she pumps black water from your blue body
I rub a frogs stomach with my little finger.
He is hypnotized, and you are alive
but barely. That night I promise I will never let you die again.

“Please don’t tell dad.”
You are fourteen,
sneaking out with friends for the first time
and I find a stolen bottle of wine
in your backpack. You say dad would have
a heart attack, and I believe you. You say you need this.
You say that you will do
anything that I ask. But I don’t ask.
Instead, I watch you pile into the back of an older friend’s Jeep,
and I am careful not to let the window creek
when I close it behind you.

In the morning I find vomit on your shoes.
I wash them in the sink. I bring you something to drink
and two aspirin. The next month your older friend
hits a cyclist in his jeep,
and kills him. The police find drugs in his system.
They send him to prison.

“Please don’t tell dad”
you are sixteen, and I catch you smoking weed,
catching you needing something
that you do not have. You are sixteen, bleeding and softening,
and when you tell me you want to die sometimes
all I can say is “so do I.” You are sixteen,
so I don’t tell dad that I think you need help
because you tell me you can help yourself.

“Please don’t tell dad”
you say on the phone, and I am nineteen now,
living on my own
eight hours from either place I call home
and I feel guilty for leaving you alone
with him.
But this time it is not about drugs or dead friends.
“I wrote a poem,” you say,
“and I think I might be good at this.
Please don’t tell dad, but I want to be a poet.”

When you hear me crying on the end of the line,
you tell me that it’s fine. That you love me. That you are thankful
for everything I’ve done, for the water in your lungs
and for the drugs and for all the times you’ve needed me
and I have not come.

“Please don’t tell dad,”
you say,
and then thank me.

Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Monday with 129,468 notes / reblog

greatestreality:

self-care suggestions beyond “have a bath” 

  • collect flowers for pressing
  • plan a trip in great detail 
  • memorise a poem
  • find and record sounds you love
  • customise a piece of clothing
  • read a book you loved from childhood
  • have someone do your hair/paint your nails
  • climb a tree (and spend some time there)
  • find a free local event to go to
  • visit an animal shelter
  • try to recreate a great meal you once had
  • record a fond memory
  • do something you think you can’t do 

(via thetalltwig)

13thmoon:

i would take naps in forests every day if bugs didnt exist 

(via featherumbrellas)


Art is just another form of screaming
I like art, and by art I mean music, poetry, sex, paintings, the human body, literature.. All of this is art to me.
I want to regain my senses again. I want to be content with simple things. I want to be able to take in every detail of the world. I don’t want to wake up one day and realized I missed my life because I was distracted. I’m tired of upgrading material possessions to keep up with everyone else. I’m tired of being told that what I have isn’t enough, that I need more in order to be happy. I unsubscribe from that notion, and I propose a new one. I propose contentment. I propose simplicity. I believe that if we learned to marvel again at simple things, we would be far more content than the wealthiest man in the world, for money is finite, but the earth has no shortage of offerings.
You’ve got too much soul to be handled by someone who has never been passionate.

motiya:

See how chill and non competitive your life gets when you don’t judge other girls in how they dress, do their make up, or how many selfies they take. Take a nap by a window, glow up

(via featherumbrellas)

eartheld:

romancenoire:

Gisèle van Waterschoot van der Gracht.
In memoriam to Gisèle, Castrum Peregrini published this poem:
Creatures for a day! What is a man?What is he not? A dream of a shadowIs our mortal being. But when there comes to menA gleam of splendor given of heavenThen rests on them a light of gloryAnd blessed are their days.
(Pythian 8, Pindaros)


mostly nature
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