I finally bought Crush today because I felt bad for downloading the PDF of it a while ago, and because I was going through this weird phase that I never go through where I wanted to spend money, which led me to buying books, this book in particular, so here, have an excerpt from one of his poems. 

Love was a sold Gibson 335
And your father’s dream died that night
Just to keep that electricity on

 

crazedlunatic:

They need 1900 more signatures!

(Source: shamartha08)

XIII. The boy behind the gas station counter, he’s got eyes the kind of blue that grows insomniacs and a book behind his back the same way people carry weapons and things that kill. He looks at everything with the shame of a dreamer, and I want to tell him I understand. That on the worst of days I worry about dying a dreamer too, and that failure is a wild, cancerous thing I’ll never find a cure for. I want to tell him If you let me, I could make one hell of a poem out of you, that failure is a wild thing but that the poetry in him is savage with red stained teeth. 

XIV. Failure looks like this. Success looks like a crowded funeral and a complete stranger on their knees with a hurricane through their bones. This hurricane, it’s me, a warring whisper of everything I once was (everything I once wrote) and everything I will continue to be. I am just trying to become something permanent. I am just looking to become something permanent. I want to tell him that, the boy behind the gas station counter, the young mom by the bus stop who closes her eyes and sings under her breath like she’s a star, and the house wife at the edge of town with Italy growing on the palm of her hand and Australia behind her heart. I want to tell them that it’s okay — who even cares about Shakespeare and Marilyn Monroe and Marco Polo anyway — that we’re all pretty, twisted poems anyway. I want to tell them that I am not ashamed of the universe behind my eyelids or of the way I can look at a stranger and dig metaphors and rhymes from the things they want buried, but that if I die just another dreamer I will shame this godawful Earth for turning me into one.

(Source: the-cascades)

chandeliersea:

nothoughtsmagazine:

FREE FILM GIVEAWAY CONTEST

NO THOUGHTS MAGAZINE IS CELEBRATING THE UPCOMING RELEASE OF OUR 7th ISSUE BY GIVING AWAY 8 ROLLS of EXPIRED 35mm B&W FILM!!

RULES TO ENTER GIVEAWAY:

• simply reblog this post.  for two chances to win reblog and click the ” ♥” 
• you MUST be following our tumblr

We will randomly choose someone from the list of notes to win the 8 rolls of film on Jan 27th 2012.

We will either email you, or contact you via the ask button on your blog.  

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!!!

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mmm film.

Okay, okay, so Warped Tour ‘07 was my second concert ever and it was the first time my sister and I saw Anberlin live and since then it’s kind of become this unspoken tradition to see them together whenever they’re in town even though I don’t listen to them much anymore (though I do recommend Cities to anyone ever because it’s just a damn good album), and I usually don’t really think too much of it until I’m there, except my sister isn’t nineteen anymore and I’m not, I’m definitely not fifteen, and she doesn’t turn up her speakers in her car anymore and only ever reads books for church, and me, well I have a reckless impulse now and I’m always getting myself into trouble and just generally being the bad seed of the family, but Anberlin feels solid and grounding and like a red string tied to both of our index fingers, and look, I hope you have a sibling, because it’s like unconditional love, but unconditional love that’s not stifling or always worried, it’s love that doesn’t tell on you even when they smell alcohol on your breath, or when your friends are in the backseat of their car talking in a slurred ramble about how the Bank of America building downtown is the tallest building on earth (no), and it’s nice. Anyway. My sister told me once that the end of this song was completely ad-libbed in the studio by the lead singer, and I really don’t know if that’s true but I choose to believe it because spontaneity makes any type of art more beautiful. Also, my friend always makes fun of me for seeing Anberlin because he claims they’re too old, and I don’t know, but I hope that when I’m thirty or forty or fifty I’m still smart enough to realize that there’s no retirement age to art or doing what you love, because there isn’t, there isn’t, and there shouldn’t be. 

XV. The way I can’t figure out if I ruin moments by twisting them into false poetry, the way a shiver sometimes feels like an avalanche, the way it says, this will have to keep you alive for months, let’s see you make it count. So there was cheap liquor and things we didn’t mean and things that we did, and I don’t remember climbing into bed in the morning, but I remember climbing out, and I wonder, every time I’m alone again, if this goodbye will be the one to kill me. 

I developed a couple of pictures from my trip back in November to New York, and mostly it makes me want to be back there but it also makes me wish that I had Hermione’s purse from DH to keep my film camera in, because I didn’t take nearly as many pictures as I would have liked to and because film cameras are big and heavy and inconvenient, but I don’t know, hopefully there’ll be a next time in which I’ll be wise enough to pack comfortable shoes and a bigger purse and less homesickness. Yeah, next time. 

abcdefghijenna:

bluebirdsheart:

- (by jenna2step)

I’ve been really struggling lately with honesty and finding the words for anything, so I shuffled through some old scans last night and uploaded this. It certainly isn’t representative of current feelings, but it still makes me shift in my seat a little, makes me a little nervous. (But I’m thankful that Alexandria posted it, because I probably would not have.)