Ari

is the university of hunger the wide waste.
is the pilgrimage of man the long march.

mysoulhasgrowndeep-liketherivers:

shanellbklyn:

onlyblackgirl:

imsoshive:

evgeniemalkin:

freedom14movement:

[x]

im in a country that has children beheading people like a sport.

arab peooplleee!

I’m sorry if all the inbreeding that’s been happening in your family for the past few generations has fucked you up to a point where you can’t read a book or go outside but he isn’t Arab and you’re so dumb I’m feeling physically ill

he’s not even arab though smh

Like white people aint prancing around country to country executing people every 30 seconds.

Bloop!

I’m in a country where we shoot Black people for no damn reason

whiiiite people

(via thatdudeemu)

domaindopemandotcom:

OKAY BUT NIGGAS WILL DEBATE FOR YEARS HOW A PUSSY SUPPOSED TO LOOK AND HOW IT SHOULD SMELL AND WHETHER IT SHOULD BE SHAVED OR NOT

BUT WHEN YOU ASK EM WHERE THE CLIT AT THE ROOM BE SILENT

(via nasty-galxxx)

! (via wastedgold)

(Source: nizariat, via nitgits)

A tragedy, when a mature mind and a romantic heart are in the same body.

readmore-worryless:

"Too many books?" I believe the phrase you’re looking for is "not enough bookshelves".

(via sociolab)

talk-done:

oculus-mundi:

endnegativity:

We got an issue here….

Yes we do

Fuh real every time like wth

(Source: endnegativity, via talk-nah)

Lisa Kleypas (via wedusv)

(Source: onlinecounsellingcollege, via prisonofself)

A long time ago I learned not to explain things to people. It misleads them into thinking they’re entitled to know everything I do.

Clementine Von Radics (via ladymegg)

From As Often as Miracles, available here!

(via clementinevonradics)

(via melanin-and-honey)

I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with ones who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2am, wild eyed and sleepless and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.