willlaren:

"Bee Culture Fan"

willlaren:

"Bee Culture Fan"

oh, hey there spirit animal. 

oh, hey there spirit animal. 

can I love you, Lonely, the way that I love him?

can I touch you in the morning, Sheet? 
drink my coffee with the sofa?
and serve up breakfast for three little mouths, and mine, and yours?
"What would you like this morning?"
Nothing.
Bleh. 

I’ll go to work and think about you,
what we’ll do at night when I get home. 
I’ll know that you haven’t done any dishes,
you haven’t dusted,
you haven’t brought up the garbage cans.
you’re just so quiet.
tell me what you’re feeling, Lonely.

I know bedtime will be the worst,
I’ll always compare your arms to his.
I’ll compare your back to his,
and you’re cold. and weightless.
because… you know. there isn’t a gravitational pull on nothing. 

sigh.
I’ll hold you tightly, Pillow. 

if I can love him, I can like you.

How German Sounds Compared To Other Languages (by Copy Cat Channel)

Sometimes I dream about a home with wood floors. I clean them meticulously everyday. It’s no secret that my exquisite floors are a source of pride.
I fill my home with the smell of yeast dough. Not sticky, perfectly elastic dough that I deftly twist into loaves. 
My kids have done their homework and their laundry’s put away. 
My hair is brushed and I smell like lavender soap.
I stand in between the living and dining room and think,
"Accomplished! Success!" This machine is oiled. It works because I built it. 
I guess that I’m just dreaming about order. 
Sometimes I dream about just wanting to be awake.
The other day I was sauteing onions and I was starving. Couldn’t I just stop eating? Perhaps then it would be possible to shrink into something so small that I could just disappear, like scattering ashes. 
I think about the old dreams of summer camp and Palestine and useless transcendentalist values, of California, of a liberal arts degree. Sweet ideals now acrid, their memory a like stain. 

O, how the tediousness of life sits on me like a boulder. I lay under it’s weight like a rag doll, and dream about wood floors. 

You Old, Gypsy Tree.

I remember that you have a story worth telling 
The tapestry of you, the T-shirt quilt of your life. 
I make it up in my head a little bit 
because you don’t know how to show me the things you’ve weaved. 
I’ve heard you say that you’re not sure I’ll understand, 
But I worry that it’s because you think I won’t like it. 
Know this though, Blue Eyes, that I’ll think it’s supreme. 
I’ll think it’s simply intricate, ironically serious,  
Directed and Ambling, and really, really 
Pretty. 
I guess what I’m saying is that I only want to know you more, 
A Keeper of Wonderful Secrets, 
A Gypsy Lady with a story worth telling. 
 
Nothing too silly  
or significant or sad 
Somber, stupid, small. 
 
They make you You, 
And I Love You! 
So I’ll take them all! 
But I’ll take none, too. 
 
Just know your story’s safe with me, 
You Scared, Green Sapling. 
You Wise, Old Tree. 

"

So you think that you’ve got troubles?
Well, trouble’s a bubble,
So tell old Mr. Trouble to “Get lost!”.

Why not hold your head up high and,
Stop cryin’, start tryin’,
And don’t forget to keep your fingers crossed.

When you find the joy of livin’
Is lovin’ and givin’
You’ll be there when the winning dice are tossed.

A smile is just a frown that’s turned upside down,
So smile, and that frown will defrost.
And don’t forget to keep your fingers crossed!

"

Dick Van Dyke Show Theme Song.

brick haus.

It’s sort of a silly thing to say
about such a little girl.
Little wrists and little breasts,
as quiet as a doe. 

But my little blue-eyed geese
and the width of my hips 
are the evidence of the fruit that I bit;
The things that I can’t unknow.

So, somewhere between
"prudent" and "crass"
"silly" and "sexy"

Sits a little house made out of brick.

For my children, safe and warm.
And for you my husband, 
unmoved by storms.

Strong foundation, the mortar thick,
A little woman made of brick.