me whenever a drawing doesnt go my way: that’s it. i lost all talent. i’m no longer able to make art. i peaked. this is it. this is the end of days
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I like art, and by art I mean music, poetry, sex, paintings, the human body, literature. All of this is art to me.
Hunter Reve (via bl-ossomed)
Anonymous asked:
what did the baker say to his wife? i loaf you
bombing answered:
she looks back at her husband with a sad smile and suddenly a girl screams, drawing their attention to their boarded windows. the husband leaves the table to peek out and see what’s going on as she reaches for the remote. outside the soldiers are surrounding a small girl. she can’t be more than ten years old and yet there are three of them, full body armor, gas masks gleaming in the sun. they’re yelling, pointing to the evac truck parked outside, but the girl won’t budge. without warning a soldier cracks the back of his hand across her jaw and the husband flinches as she screams once more. he raises his hand to do it again but another soldier grabs it, angrily telling him to stand down. he watches as they begin shoving each other, the third soldier shaking with laughter. a drop of blood rolls down her nose. the husband notices it the same time they do, and all hell breaks loose. all three soldiers instantly point their weapons at her. he hears three safeties switch off almost simultaneously as her eyes widen to the size of saucers. three small red dots dance on her forehead as the soldiers hesitate, unsure of what to do next. suddenly she coughs, and all three fire at once. her body is thrown backwards, leaving a dark red arc suspended in mid air for the slightest of moments before splattering all over the unkempt lawn. a soldier moves to shoot her again and the husband can’t watch any longer. he looks away as another gunshot shatters the silence, his knuckles white as he tightens his grip on the counter. he hears the voices of the soldiers as they move to the next house to check for survivors. he knows they’ll be here soon just as he knows they’ll have to go with them. he knows they won’t leave them any other choice. behind him the tv blares, a frazzled news reporter warning all citizens that nosebleeds and vomiting are the first signs of infection. she urges everyone to report anyone who exhibit any of the symptoms, whether it be family or friends. suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder. he turns to face his wife, the sunlight dancing across her features. even after two weeks of hell she’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. he reaches for her hand and blinks with surprise as he feels cold metal. she smiles sadly as she presses the gun into his hands. his eyes widen as he sees a single drop of blood roll down her nose.
“i loaf you too.”
she was a comet streaking
a super nova sun
she was a black hole
drawing me in to her core
she was more
she was a thunderstorm raging
a bolt of lightning
she was a tsunami
hitting hard against my shore
she was more
my favorite tidbit about rome is that in the mid-1800s one of the popes didnt like the statues in rome having dicks so he ordered them knocked off. fast forward to the last decade or so and art historians in conjunction with the vatican are trying to erm. restore. the statues. but the dicks were just. kept in a box. so art historians are going around rome, with a box of dicks, trying to match them up to their owner.
I think everything in life is art. What you do. How you dress. The way you love someone, and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in, and all your dreams. The way you drink your tea. How you decorate your home. Or party. Your grocery list. The food you make. How your writing looks. And the way you feel. Life is art.
Helena Bonham Carter (via poetrea)
Anonymous asked:
Your jokes are bad and you should feel bad.
officialunitedstates answered:
no jokes here son just some art
encourage
