There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
― Ernest Hemingway (via mullingcorner)

(Source: wrong-century)

9:54 pm  •  16 April 2014  •  650 notes

I scrounge for change. I bring my own travel mug
to school because it’s cheaper that way. I start books

but do not finish them. I think about love obsessively.
Everything I do reminds me of my grandfather.

My grandmother visits and talks to me about God,
wants me to believe, but I do not have that kind of faith.

I only believe in the easy things, like red lipstick
and coffee before noon and writing essays in pen.

I make my mind up about boys and then I unmake it,
compare us to continental drift, two ships passing.

I hit the snooze button too often. Write disposable
poems on napkins and old homework, try to discipline

myself when it comes to removing my makeup
before bed. I am trying to understand men better,

cut them some slack, write about them less. I dream
about oceans and mountains and wolves. I do not

always love myself. I do not always forgive myself.
I write apology letters and do not send them. Usually,

I do not mean it when I tell someone “goodbye.”

Kristina Haynes, “Self-Portrait at Twenty-One” 
9:05 pm  •  16 April 2014  •  14,518 notes

Shadowboxer - Fiona Apple

8:07 pm  •  16 April 2014  •  52 notes

The amount of sadness I feel all the time because I’m not mind blowingly good at any one thing fucking kills me. Being mediocre at a handful of things is stupid.

1:49 pm  •  15 April 2014  •  16 notes