citizensyndrome:

I see you, Fox News.
commie-pinko-liberal:

powerburial:

thecelloprincess:

theafrocentrics:

wow

holy fuck

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/08/16/us/ferguson-mo-michael-brown-and-darren-wilson-2-paths-to-a-fatal-encounter.html?_r=0

"Mr. Stone ran outside and saw two police officers, both white men, standing near Mr. Brown, who was lying on his stomach, his arms at his sides, blood seeping from his head. Another neighbor, a woman who identified herself as a nurse, was begging the officers to let her perform CPR.
They refused, Mr. Stone said, adding, “They didn’t even check to see if he was breathing.”
fukkkres:

u lucky he holdin me back bitch 
16th August, SaturdayReblog

you said you didn’t like poets who wrote about the moon
you said

cherries are better than red lipstick
rotten fruit isn’t poetic
the sky lives in your purple bruises

you said
paint yourself with magenta, don’t wash your hair
with the same raw shampoo, it’ll make you think you’re the
same person you were when
he left you

you said
tell someone about the time you threw up cake at
your 14th birthday
party, the one where Anna wore a
yellow dress and your mother called her
more beautiful

when someone writes like they’re on drugs,
you said
fuck them hard to Mozart’s No. 6 and tell
them you think you see constellation in
their eyes and sadness in their broken soul

you said when you feel the holes in
your black heart, you have to smile and think
this is it

this
is it
this is what it’s like to feel tortured

how morbid

but you said, then find someone who is
willing to spill themselves into your swollen emptiness

you said,
stop waiting for someone to electrocute your spine,
to linger on your scars like burning alcohol, to bleed
into your mouth their wet tongues

instead, you said,
electrocute them
linger and then you said,

bleed

— confessions from my alcoholic mother - irynka (via oxfay)

16th August, SaturdayReblog
renvoyer:

following back everyone
I am sorry about the blood you taste in these poems. It was boiling, and I didn’t know where else to put it. On my best days, I am still a little angry. On my worst days, I am not sorry for it. I want you to listen closely to what I don’t want to say. If the sadness grabs you by the collar, don’t kiss her back. When you are no one else’s first choice, be your own. Forgive the broken winged birds for forgetting how to fly, and forgive the splintered boats for learning how to sink. I know I’m in no place to tell you any of this, but my hands needed to hold something, and this pen is all I had. Lately, I’ve been too much wind and not enough rain. All this sits inside of me, and I just knock things down. Nothing ever grows like it used to. Maybe I’m losing my mind, but I’m too busy searching for my pulse to notice. I am telling you this, so you don’t ever think it’s pretty. I need you to stop setting the things you love on fire. I need you to know that there are better ways to find light. I need you to know that there are better ways to find warmth.

— Y.Z, A letter to my future self (via oxfay)

(Source: rustyvoices)

16th August, SaturdayReblog
renvoyer:

following back everyone