Torture

I was going to look you up, try to find out about you, Try to reach you through research but then I thought, Why should I torture the soul like this?

My ankle is hurt, my arm sore. The soul wounded, the sun shinny. And you are playing hiding, I won’t bother about the finding. Funny what you appreciate when walking hurts, impressive what you miss when freedom is not yours. I wonder who you are when I’m not around.

Marcia Tapia.

poetry poets on tumblr writing iwriteyouread poesia escritos

viceofknives:

"Nausea is a noble disorder. It is not the name that fits this dust, this shame, that sticks in my throat, that I cannot swallow, nor spit up."

La Maman et la Putain AKA The Mother and the Whore (dir. Jean Eustache, 1973)

(via iwanttobelikearollingstone)