#abstractcommunity

decaymp3:

decaymp3:

im so srs humans were made for art and friend and food and beddy bye. i mean this

and help each other. humans were made for help each other

random-xpressions:

What if there existed no other language on earth except something deeply symbolic: a handshake, a hug, a kiss. The sheer capacity of the human body to express by itself, be it through the eyes or by the hands is simply amazing. A touch could be more healing than any other medicine discovered till date. And don’t ask me what wonders those lips could do if they were to just widen a bit with a hearty smile, enough to bring all the heavenly bliss. Get your body involved, tongue is not the crown of expression, it’s merely a medium resorted in the last phase. Otherwise, your entire being is more than enough to express beautifully by itself - this body, in which you reside, is the perfect symbolic epitome of what your soul is truly made of…

Random Xpressions

liberalsarecool:

Leave reproductive decisions up to individuals.

jezifster:

Weed should be free in fact you should get paid for smoking it

theleakypen:

punkrorschach:

thesaltofcarthage:

depsidase:

my name is elephant
I don’t fit the rhyme scheme
I drink the soup
It’s not like you’re going to stop me

my name is ‘Phant

i do not fit

the poem scheme

i will omit

but i don’t care

and nor should you

unstoppably,

i drink the soup

I’m ollyfant

with legs like trees

and any time

I dam well plees

Thro window smalle

as jeweler’s loupe

I reach insyde

I drink the soupe

losinghopeart:

confessions

jussamon:

ancientdaydreams:

Imagine being so ashamed of your history you outlaw it from being taught

Their a Bunch of Cowards.

strangers dancing on tongue

twirling with delight

beating to devilish drums

sweet to bitter back to sweet, one two one

no in between — no other routine

here, then there, then here

swift, trodding by air

begging for touch to not

burn this time but to

intertwine and find me at

the bottom of the glass or

your throat

i last cut my hair when you were awake,

when hair hung below my ears but above my shoulders

ive had it grow long for years you have been gone

kept it around for the sake of our fate

an act of self-preservation i thought

or for what now seems as delusion.

ends split,

dead weight remained from the mess i became

i cut it off, like a noose to life

defying the odds

i restore my truth.

a dream is a spiders web

entangling, but a home

each thread a bed for rest

each rest an ungraceful wed, 

reminders of sacred times

where reality is on lucks side.

light breaks, such illusions dissipate,

within seconds of awakening the dream is dead

the grasp loosened, the home gone

— and the web is weak filament, almost false,

leaving purpose stranded

with no patience to hold

and its spider noiseless within calamity

the sun danced on Ector street

warming each home and those who roamed

I was only a visitor at the time,

life had wings and flowed with each breeze,

every hope and dream breathed from the concrete — the roots of your home

sun rays gleamed from and at you all at once

we couldn’t see past each beam

blinded by light or love

and we shared it unequally.

we rise and fall like each passing day,

we failed to last our eternity

or perhaps we have just begun—

the sun still dances on Ector street

maybe that is us.

hate never fumed in me as much as it has since i last saw you

dead weeds ripped from my roots and the hate swooped through

transplanted and bloomed all ready to weave around like your noose

it attracts all toxic traits, greed and rage

consuming its prey, there is no dying light only a blinding one

i cannot go gentle, i cannot go at all

rage, rage, there is no good night

only hate eats

and love breathes steadily,

then falls asleep

on your chest

where nothing beats.

poison remains in my eyes

because you’re forever not in sight

but i cut hate’s stem now and again

hoping you’ll revisit and make your amneds

or that this revival will

somehow mend the wounds of hate,

so my soul could breathe again

we would talk about the rain

and wish it would pour on us for days

hope for long trips to sights

we’ve never seen before.

letting things slip,

the mind unravels what once was

right in front of us

but which now lays behind

with you beneath to only wish

on the possibility

of our dreams

being alive,

wherever you reside.

open wounds laid on the bed

safe for them to take their meds

open wounds make people cringe

too gruesome for them to understand

open wounds from a pen

bleed red

from delirious wolves who devoured the flesh 

open wounds from your own head

written for all to live and say aloud instead