(Source: thepowerpuffgirls, via fuckaton)

classichorrorblog:

Addams Family Values
Directed by Barry Sonnenfeld (1993)

(via ruinedchildhood)

(Source: sleazeburger, via roseyjones)

(Source: bikermc, via fuckaton)

nevver:

Anatomically correct, Aitch

(Source: aitch.ro, via skankin-it-easy)

• Trackname:

  Nights (2nd Part) Slowed & Pitched Down

• Artist:

  Frank Ocean

(Source: medusabraids, via polodowntothesocks)

unbeingdeaddd:

88yeezus:

norman-ii:

yonces-liquor:

beyoncespam:

I’d Rather Go Blind - Beyonce as Etta James in Cadillac Records

This clip really shows off her singing as well as her acting.

I cried when I first watched this 😭

Jesus

I remember crying when this scene came on😭

Pre-lemonade lemonade

(via hummingbirdbones)

frankocean:

-5

saturninefilms:

Poems and Poets

you can either be the poet or the poem
and here’s the catch:
nobody wants to fuck the poem and
nobody wants to love the poet
you can’t be both, but you have to be one
or the other and that’s just
how it is and it’s just how
it has always been.

making the mistake is dire
(and you will make it over and again)
each method with it’s own
caveats.

two poets don’t work because they talk too much.
everything is a story to us
the napkin with the salt spilled on it,
an old man sipping on his coffee at four-thirty in the morning
the way the light creeps in like it doesn’t
want to be seen, it’s all part of the narrative.
when a poet loves another poet, they talk
so damn much that the moment passes
without much consideration until then
when the desperation sets in after
the love wears off and you’re left only
with a body beside you that doesn’t
set your soul on fire, and make no mistake
you don’t set theirs on fire either
and they both wake up wishing
that they were the poem,
but they aren’t and they
can’t be.  it’s just the way it is
and the way it has always, 
always been.

two poems can’t love one another because they
are so busy with themselves.  it’s a game that
nobody ever wins, but the meantime is so
much fun that nobody is worried about the
ultimate consequence (and the oddest part
of all this, really):  when you love a poem, especially
if you long to be one yourself,
to be loved and doted on and
written about with fondness and
appreciation and gratitude
when it inevitably doesn’t happen that way,
when the only words written in stone
are etched in a languid dialect
that nobody can read (especially you)
you become the poet and
there’s no going back
from that.

nobody wants to fuck the poem and
nobody wants to love the poet.
that’s the way it is and that’s
the way it’s destined to
always be.

if i’m ever proven wrong, i will
definitely write it down
then again, maybe
i won’t

maybe i won’t need to
lord sure as hell knows
by now that I’m
pretty god
damn tired
of being the
poet and
never the
word.

So much truth -