drugstorecowboyyoumakemevomit:
Pardon me but wasn’t that your heart?That I felt on the bed,
In the bed in between the sheets? I might have been confused,
By all the sweat, There was a lot of sweat and I might be mistaken but …
I can swear yours was wanting more.
So I waited
For you.
“In the end
these things matter most:
How well did you love?
How fully did you live?
How deeply did you let go?”
sadnesses: (via dreamandwake)
“For a little while, I thought girls were just jealous, which is why they were mean to me. Maybe they were jealous of my fearlessness. But I think I genuinely used to rub people in the wrong way. I’d talk about things and do things that were very ostentatious, and over the top, and very vain. And it’s part of my artistic aesthetic. I think you’re born an artist. It’s like being gay. You’re born gay, and then you discover that’s who you are over a period of time in a world where maybe being gay is not the normal thing. Then you look it in the eye and you say thank you, and you put it in your heart and you lock it up and you go. When you’re 12 years old and making clothes with plastic flowers attached to them, and trying to choreograph shows at your school that are entirely too sexy — you start to be like, Okay, this is my aesthetic. My aesthetic is in so many ways exactly the same as it was when I was younger, I’m just smarter. And I know how to execute the ideas. And I have a bigger budget.”
—Lady GaGa on growing up strange. (via fuckyeahladygaga)
“When you make music or write or create, it’s really your job to have mind-blowing, irresponsible, condomless sex with whatever idea it is you’re writing about at that time.”
—Lady GaGa (from Blender Magazine) (via fuckyeahladygaga)
“
Why does my life so often
feel like a slither of entrails
pouring from a wound in my belly?
With both my hands I grasp
my wet guts, trying to force
them back in.
Why does my life
so often feel like a wild
black lake under the midnight
thunder where I am drowning,
waves crashing over my face
as I try to breath.
Why
does my life feel like a war
I am fighting alone? Why are
you fighting me? Why aren’t
you with me? If I die this instant
will you be more content
with the morning news?
Will your coffee taste better?
I am not your fate. I am not your government.
I am not your FBI. I am not
even your mother, not your father
or your nightmare or your health.
I am not a fence, not a wall.
I am not the law or the actuarial tables
of your insurance broken. I am
a woman with my guts loose
in my hands, howling and its not
because I commited hara-kiri.
I suggest either you cook me
or sew me back up. I suggest you walk
into my pain as into the breaking
waves of an ocean of blood, and either
we will both drown or we will
climb out together and walk away.
—intimacy - marge piercy (via partythighs)
There isn’t really a name for it, but it’s the kind of thing where you can still feel their skin on your skin even though it’s been years since anything has happened, but it was like your skin could remember everything your mind couldn’t. It was the kind of thing that doesn’t fade away, that still gives you goosebumps and draws the minuscule hair on your arms to fly up reminiscent over what once used to be, but now isn’t and never will be anything more than what it was.
drugstorecowboyyoumakemevomit:
Well your old hometown is so far away
But, inside your head there’s a record
That’s playing, a song called
Hold on, hold on
You really got to hold on
Take my hand, I’m standing right here
And just hold on.- Hold On, Tom Waits
(by justin.scrappers)