Love Artfully

I need
someone to love me
in all of my forms.
To find passion
in the dirty, gory bits.
To sing lullabies
to my anxieties.
To celebrate
in my truths.
Until then,
I will do it myself.

Michelle K., Loving Yourself is a Political Statement. (via michellekpoems)

I have learned
that you cannot
love
a woman like a
little girl,
nor can you
expect
a boy
to act like a man.

Michelle K., Inspired By Sassy Rihanna Tweets. (via michellekpoems)

Perhaps the fact
that I chased a boy
who ripped me to shreds
says a lot more
about me
than it did about him.

Michelle K., Lessons Learned.  (via perfect)

Wow that didn’t shoot me through the heart.

(via takingit-daybyday)

(via kasskasskass)

Wasn’t that the definition of home? Not where you are from, but where you are wanted.

—Abraham Verghese, Cutting of the Stone  (via cj-bj)

(Source: larmoyante, via kasskasskass)

No matter how careful you are, there’s going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn’t experience it all. There’s that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should’ve been paying attention.
Well, get used to that feeling. That’s how your whole life will feel some day.

—Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters (via psych-facts)

(via kasskasskass)

The whole culture is telling you to hurry, while the art tells you to take your time. Always listen to the art.

Junot Díaz

Everything you love is here

(via lovequotesrus)

(Source: kamara, via lovequotesrus)

Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I have already heard the word rubbed raw across the flesh of so many girls before me. Thrown at them like rocks that beat the skin of those we do not understand.

“You are beautiful,” we yell with such contempt. “God dammit, why won’t you just believe me, you’re beautiful!” It is not a compliment. It is a victory march of your own self sacrifice. “You’re beautiful,” we say through gritted teeth. “You’re beautiful,” we spit out through tears, looking at a reflection we hate. “You’re beautiful,” we say, holding a body that has never felt the arms of another. “You’re beautiful.”

Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. A word like that floats on the surface, give me something with depth. Tell me I’m intelligent. Tell me I’m courageous. Tell me that when I laugh the whole world smiles. Tell me that my voice is sweeter than strawberries. Remind me that my hands have helped flowers grow, painted the ocean, and captured the sky in my phone. Assure me that with a mind like mine, I can change the world. 

Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I don’t really care if it’s true. I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that beauty goes through and through. Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I’ve felt the word splatter against me enough for a lifetime. I am better than the “beautiful” that slips from your lips. I am the ocean, 36,000 feet deep. There are parts of me you have never seen. I am outer space, infinite in your search. I am not simply “beautiful.” I’m a fucking masterpiece.

—Not Everyone is Beautiful (via crimson-jpg)

(via lacatrala)

Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary.

—Boris Pasternak (via observando)

please believe that things are good with me, and even when they’re not, they will be soon enough. And i will always believe the same about you.

Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower (via feellng)

For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.

So collapse.
Crumble.
This is not your destruction.

This is your birth.

You dig graves and call it art,
I fill them up again and call it sacrifice.
There is a forest bursting
into flames somewhere,
and somehow I am still worried about the next
time I will kiss your shoulders.
Maybe writing this is the closest to bravery I will ever get
without my throat burning,
and I’m sorry if it isn’t enough.
We keep speaking to each other in hands,
and if we should ever be left with only knuckles,
then promise not to stay.
It’s okay if we don’t know what we’re doing.
All my poems start mid-sentence,
but I’d like to think they find their way
eventually.
You’re going to bite your tongue while reading this,
and I won’t let you swallow the blood this time.
I won’t lie to you,
I’m the best thing that has ever happened to me,
and no one can change that.
But when your lips crack,
I’ll still kiss them,
and that has to count for something.

—Y.Z, This is the most honest I can be without lying (via rustyvoices)

(via kasskasskass)