“Oh dreams you swallow my soul,
My eyes drown in the experience,
My heart lives in the understanding of the story.

Visions you take hold of my mind,
Questions answered and not.

Visions of warning,
How fearful I am before they come true.

Dreams awaking me shaking and in sweat.

Dreams where comforting darkness would be more welcome.

Visions I fear you.

Visions I want to know more.

But I will not go prowling in the crevices of my mind.

For dreams float atop my mind and the visions hug the backs of my eyes.

Blinded by foresight.

Dreams and visions,
Your reality is unreal.

Dreams and visions,
You prick my floating soul.

Oh hallucinations stay at bay in my mind.”

reflection of the soul.

“I once had a dream, and in the dream I talked to my heart.
I asked my heart, “what do you want?”
But there was just a quiet stillness that replied.
So I asked my heart again, in a quiet voice, “what do you want heart?”
I saw from the darkness inside myself the two eyes belonging to my heart.
They looked up at my own eyes, past my eyes, up towards the grey clouds passing up overhead in the cool sky.
My heart’s eyes then returned to mine, took two slow blinks, as a round hot tear slid from my heart’s eyes.
The tear fell from my heart, and splashed into the dark void of myself where it made a puddle.
The puddle became a mirror, and reflected the sky, and my own eyes.
I looked at myself, at the void, at the clouds, and then back at my heart.
Letting out a small scared breath, my heart replied, “you want to be good, and to have good. To love, and be loved.”
I heard a small splash, and the mirrored puddle reflected my own tears whom where falling.
And then I heard it, like a little child, a sound coming from the belly of a little child…laughter.
The puddle grew, and reflected more and more sky, and I saw it was me whom was laughing.
This sound I had buried and lost under the cloud of darkness and fear began to swallow the void.
And I saw my heart’s eyes turn to crescent moons as they smiled back at me.
There was no-more void, no puddle, no child, and no sound.
It was all in one place, within myself.
And I felt my heart beat slow and steady, as I sighed a sigh of sleep.
For there were no nightmares, and no cold hours.
Just blinking stars in the swirling space of gold and blue dust.”
– Me.

The House by the River of Generations

“My grandmother’s house has a lot of history.

Years of childhood memories from my father’s day as well as my own are buried deep within the white damp walls as the ghosts of friendly games hide in the passage and it’s many paintings.

People’s past footprints are left embedded in the Persian carpets, and their voices reflected off the many gold-rimmed mirrors.

The river below the one side of the house is the flowing pull of history, all the way down to the beach where old people walk along the ever changing white sandy shoreline.

The wind that whips around the house and up the giant pine tree in the garden carries the calls of all the children whom have lived and passed through my grandfather’s garden.

Their laughter sits, vibrating in all the colorful flower-heads.

My grandparent’s house is a home that calls the generations, like the seagulls who fly over the rooftop, and perch in the trees.

The home by the river mouth. ”
– Kate, one of the Granddaughters.

Translucent self.

Run away, from them and from myself.
Oh self. Oh abuse. How big, how blue, hollow and cold.
How i want to make lines in my body, let there be scars, let there be bones, cuts and tears.
Let me become translucent, watery-glassy eyes, blue veins, purple bruises and pale skin.
Hide the scissors and blades. My arms long to bleed, my hair wishes to be cut from me.
Slowly, i chip away at myself. Losing parts of my body here and there.
Cannibalizing of myself.



Hello pale skin,
that brings back the sight,
of blue-green veins,
and pentagon-scars on my arms,
that are not gone.
But whom appear when my skin turns,
a see-through brown.


Hello longer hair,
that tickles my collar-bones,
whom appear a little more prominently.
Because with eating,
comes being ugly.


Hello winter,
reminding me of the last winter,
when he was swallowed and tumbled under the waves of the river,
like the pebbles,
whom get chipped away after the churning waters roll over and over again.


Hello fear,
of failing,
of disappointing,
of being alone,
of being the faller,
of being lost to myself,
of not being good at what i thought i was,
of being the ugly duckling.
But not turning swan-like.





to the silence,
the the screams,
to the cold sadness,
and the sweat and burning frustration.

To all of this,
which one never fully escapes.

This slugged, dark, heavy, bleeding, scratching, pulling, deadly, tired, gooey;

When do we say goodbye….?


*I don’t care whether the roses that pass me on the sidewalk scream, wolf-wistel, or cry as they see me come*

*I like dressing like i don't give a sh*t whether the roses that pass me on the sidewalk scream, wolf-wistel, or cry as they see me come* - myself


“I may not get many likes,
nor may i be very recognized.

May some of you please find depth in random images,
and see potential for persons much as myself.

I’d say im equally as good as i am bad,
and equally as morbid as i am happy.

There’s the yin-yang in myself,
and i both like,
and hate it.

I like the fact that i can accept change,
and the fact that i refuse to change.

the contradiction grows like a wild bush of pale roses,
their thorns sharp and tugging in your skin,
while their pale beauty of soft sent sends you off into a dreamy haze of wonder.

There is the contradiction i look for.

There is the beauty i am captured by,

and within that gripping thought,
I wonder,
How can i aspire to express this?

Those are the words that make me sound more and more cliched with the strong smell of “cheese” laced over them.

I walk up to my bush of roses,

And i can do nothing but hang upside-down with the blood flowing to my head,
and my hair falling in black,
curled locks,
as i look down to the ants falling in line among the grass’ roots in the moist,

Birds call from the swaying,
dripping tree-tops and grey clouds,

I do not long to join them,

I long but to stay here,
with my ears starting to ring,
and my eyes bulging from the build-up of blood,
and puke making it’s way to my mouth.

The vines and thorns or the roses start to sway me this way and that,
bringing my sleepy sickness on.

I love this,
And i start to float away,
on the unconscious wave of blood and sweet sent of the pale,
pink roses in bloom.

This is my way out of this world…” – Me

she had many bricks in her wall

she had many bricks in her wall

Paris Sketches




User upload


cellar door


We Heart It

fuck yeah, text.


A new age.

A new age.

Photo wall art





Stay Gold

love minimal style

bathroom smoking

dangerous darkness

space girl


big city dreams