Each week walking home from work i pick my mother a bunch of daffodils
wrenched roots from the roadside
And each week she congratulates me on my killing.
She proudly parades my grotesque trophy, sunshine nodding corpses, in a vase
like stag antlers nailed to a mahogany board
And not once does she say
“Stop!
Let them grow.”
She teaches me that death is okay if it’s beautiful.
Posted: May 2nd
"My dear,
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all.
Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover." written by Charles Bukowski (via haemus)
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all.
Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover." written by Charles Bukowski (via haemus)
