Tell me what your worst fears are. I bet they look a lot like mine. Tell me what you think about when you can't sleep at night. Tell me that you're struggling. Tell me that you're scared, no, tell me that you're terrified of life. Tell me that it's difficult to not think of death sometimes. Tell me how you lost. Tell me how he left. Tell me how she left. Tell me how you lost everything that you had. Tell me it ain't ever coming back. Tell me about God. Tell me about love. Tell me that it's all of the above. Say you think of everything in fear. I bet you're not the only one who does. The people you love become ghosts inside of you. And like this you keep them alive. .~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~This isn't even a blog anymore it's just a list of complaints I have. M.I.A is my absolute idol. Morrissey, Kurt Cobain, Claire Boucher, Courtney Love, Lana Del Rey, John Green, Marina, Gwen Stefani and Johnny Depp are some other of my many inspirations. The smiths, radiohead, the killers, Hole and Nirvana. Underground bands, painting, drawing, writing. I am intrigued by deep people. Karma. Charity. Grunge, shopping, tea, high fashion. Educating each other. Money. Letting loose. The greats of every genre.
I hope to make a charity one day to help raise money to build wells and grow crops in third world countries. I'd like be a lawyer and writer of some sort and I want to be a peace activist. x x x x

foxgrl:

u ever accidentally fall in love with everyone

"It’s sassy and pale bitch."

unclefather:

Tumblr will believe anything. One time i said i was going to be in step up 2. I wasn’t in it but none of you would know that because no one watched that movie. 

(via fake-mermaid)

The prince fought valiantly.
He slayed the dragon.
The princess cried for days.
She loved that dragon.
— The stories fairytales don’t tell (via frostnymph)

(Source: caliginosity-, via acidic--nymphet)


After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via awelltraveledwoman)

(Source: oliviacirce, via wolfinq)


coagulates:

Drink water everyday and don’t let boys be mean to you

(via tearswithin)