I give this knife to thee,
to plunge into the very heart of me,
and taste my blood.
A Poet is a Nightingale
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
---Percy Bysshe Shelley
---Percy Bysshe Shelley
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
(Source: larmoyante, via bloodisthenewblackk)
2 days ago - 
51
51I wasn’t lonely. I experienced no self-pity. I was just caught up in a life in which I could find no meaning.
Charles Bukowski
(Source: cachaemic, via an-exquisite-corpse)
(via an-exquisite-corpse)
I am afraid…
(Source: travels-, via an-exquisite-corpse)
(Source: quiteafewdreams)
1 week ago - 29
29I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
Sylvia Plath
(Source: nickblu, via an-exquisite-corpse)
