You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
— Anna Akhmatova, The Complete Poems (via observando)

(via so-divine)

He was my north, my south, my east and west,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last forever;
I was wrong
— W. H. Auden in Funeral Blues
If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery—isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.
— Charles Bukowski, (via kushandwizdom)
I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That’s why I’m trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.
— Stephen Chbosky (via kushandwizdom)

You asked me to stop smoking cigarettes. You told me that they’d turn my insides into ash but you forgot to mention that you would too.

Now I go through a pack a day and my hands won’t stop shaking. Everyone tells me I should stop, but destroying myself reminds me too much of you.

And believe me baby, I’ve tried to exhale the breaths we shared when we kissed and even when I run out of breath, I still have yours but what if I didn’t? What if I never loved you enough to die for you?

I’d like to tell myself that I’d be fine if your lips were never against mine, but you’re one who took away the shovel when I was digging my own grave.

I knew you loved me then, so why did you leave me here alone with my thoughts, a pack of cigarettes and shaking hands? Was my love not enough for you? If you come back, I promise to stop smoking. Please come back.

— cigarettes and destruction are synonyms for each other // collab thewordsyouneverunderstood and heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via thewordsyouneverunderstood)

(via ipartyhard)