|—||Heidi Pickett (via niallisonfiya)|
If the boy who draws
let’s you look over his shoulder.
If the poet
and shows you her words.
If the girl who sings for the shower only,
hums a song
in front of you.
Know that you’re no longer a person
but the air
that fills their lungs.
When the world perishes,
and all things cease to exist,
you’ll remain inside an ink stain,
a paint brush,
— Alaska Gold
My dear old friend, take me for a spin
Two wolves in the dark, running in the wind
I’m letting go, but I’ve never felt better
Passing by all the monsters in my head
Slow and Steady— Of Monsters and Men
(like we invented narcissism).
Critics inform me that I am
self obsessed, passive, and impatient—
eaten up by consumerism
as much as I am defined by it.
They call me dead from the neck up,
disillusioned of the beauties I now take for granted.
But I have never felt so much alive,
and the world could not look more beautiful
than I am striving to make it.
So if it’s selfish for me to want more for myself
than the legacy of poverty and depression—
of social unrest—
my parents left for me,
then give me my tar and my feathers.
Give me my crown,
and call me Greed.
|—||Thoughts On Millennials, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)|