Trees Dont Get Enough Love

“I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.” -Claude Monet

This morning, with her, having coffee.

Johnny Cash, when asked about his paradise (via wnq-music)

Some of my analog pictures I took in the park in June🌷

untitled by WeliWaca Film Gallery on Flickr.

humans are so cute, when we say goodbye we put our arms around each other and to show we love someone we bring them flowers. we say hello by holding each other’s hand, and sometimes tiny little dewdrops form in our eyes. for pleasure we listen to arrangements of sounds, press our lips together, smoke dried leaves, get drunk off of old fruit. we’re all just little animals, falling in love and having breakfast beneath billions of stars

aries.. the world is filled with flying baby dragons, blowing ruby fire with birthday cakes, welcome to the world, the sky is covered in balloons, their wings from heaven still sewn on their backs, tiny battle swords in their hands, ready to defend their land

taurus… the air tastes like cinnamon and everything is edible, it tastes of coconut macaroons, money grows on trees, and nature sings songs… everything is cosy, and comfortable, an eternal twilight, beauty is eternal, dance is the walk of the gods

gemini… the world is thousands of little pixies flying with golden helmets and wings on their ballet shoes, messages are heralded across the sky, and rollercoasters loop through libraries so they grab a thousand books in a hurry

cancer… a giant half crescent moon hangs in the sky, illuminating the day and the night in gentle evening glow…the morning air tastes of vanilla icecream… shells are boats that transport people from place to place… the frost of snow so it can be blankets and cuddles…

leo.. the world echoes with babies giggling and the saxophones of broadway. the sun is shining, illuminating everything with silver crystals, red carpets are rolled before their feet… crowns are upon every head.. palaces line the street, and the footpaths are mirrors to reflect the exquisite beauty of every citizen

virgo… little elves fly with golden helmets and wings made of leaves.. tonics and curatives grow in green bottles from the trees… the air is fresh and the streets are clean… the earth is worshiped

libra… the air tastes of musk and strawberries and swallows fly in stunning circles, making music and art… the world is balanced on a set of scales… and everything falls when righteousness is not served… women run parliament, business, and the economics… valentines day is a day of glorious celebration

scorpio.. the world is surrounded by black sea, glowing with radioactivity… the walls around each house are high, security is important… wires connect to the cosmos transmitting psychic symbols and revelation… witches and druids line the streets with tarot, and zodiac, and empath healing sorcery

sagittarius… the world is filled with the colour, dance, and love of a thousand cultures, languages, and religions… temples hit the sky with arrows etched in the sky.. the dream of ascension in every resident… the gods and goddesses walk the street, retelling their stories in everyday life

capricorn… the world is cities lined in silver, surrounded in colossal mountains… with millions of clocks making music with time, wizards are the sherpers who guide the mountain haul, waiting on top is a slide from heaven to earth, so their mermaid tails can soak in the sea again

aquarius…UFO’s and spaceships zip through the sky, as people with fly with jetpacks and hoverboards.. the cities are light in flashing neon rainbows, and they swim in a sea of giant chemistry sets filled with swirling liquid glitter

pisces.. the world is a little darkened and it rains often, but the rain makes a lullaby, and it isn’t customary to wake until the evening… the cities are surrounded in milky water with mermaids emerging, calling and longing for their return into the sea, the place is timeless and they never awake from dream

-C.

I am not composing poetry. I am trying to get out of the flames.

Ted Hughes, from an uncompleted poem written c. May 1969 (via violentwavesofemotion)

God, how painful it is, being angry.

Simone de Beauvoir, tr. by Justin O’Brien, from “The Woman Destroyed,” (via violentwavesofemotion)