un inspired

If Brook was on the Mafia’ side

That would never happen but I wanted to play with the idea n desing

Also the Bendy in her tail is @devilsroost Bendy because I will draw him in her tail until he moves out, in this au he is kinda like her spoiled “cat” pet

4

harumichi + [ HANDS & lyrics that hit me in the feels ]

Ella era una hermosa metáfora.
Ella era poesía misteriosa.
Para descubirla y decifrarla tenías que buscar significados en cada verso y estrofa.
Era un poema frío pero con sentimiento.
Mirarla causaba dolor, tristeza y distancia hacia a su persona.
Pero cuando hablabas con ella, cuando la comenzabas a conocer te dabas cuenta que las apariencias engañan.
Que en fin de cuentas si tenía algo calido en sus adentros y era su alma.
—  “Ella es metáfora”.
-Winter❄
2

19/11/2017 // day 44 of 100 days of productivity

It’s been a quiet, calm sort of Sunday. The ballroom dancing society practiced in the su cafe today so I went to go watch and do some American Literature reading x

Listening to apres une reve by Faure

Sei una da baci lenti tu. Quelli dati ad occhi chiusi e labbra leggere. Piccoli ma pieni di emozione. Quelli che ti allontani piano, ci si guarda negli occhi e scoppia l'amore.
— 

@sickkown

Instagram: @/sickoowwnn

When you fall in love with people,
You make homes out of them,
You leave bits and pieces of yourself there and it becomes a part of who they are and this pretty much explains why I feel empty and lost.
For all of my life,
I had my walls built so high that no one managed to climb it, but I fell for you and suddenly your existence became my walls.
I’m forsaken and sad but i’m not scared to be.
I learned the hard way that eventually everything will pass,

And regardless of how logical this sounds,
Or how it is supposed to make my heart hurt less,
It doesn’t.
I don’t want to spend these lonely nights knowing I still have demons to face.

So..

Give me something,
for the lonely hours..
Give me time,
so I’d learn how to love the regret..
Aren’t we all dying in spent breaths after all?
Aren’t we all broken by our own beliefs?
Betrayals?
The homes we left?
The ghosts we became?
And the demons we destroyed?

But for some reason,
Being with you felt like a better version of being alone and I thought we were eternity.
My thoughts are depressing,
But don’t I make you want to live?
Things were pretty much smooth and easy before me,
But were they beautiful?
We had an obsession with matching tattoos,
And now we have a matching hole inside our heart and soul.
Despite the tornadoes that raged on and the deafening silence we shared,
Us, this, will echo in our heads like a broken record.

My god,
I feel this numbness wrecking all my feelings,
emptying me and turning me cold.
I’m sorry,
I’m hard to understand..
I’m sorry,
I don’t talk..
I’m sorry,
I let you go..
But you weren’t supposed to make me want to kill myself.

2

“They’re more like…the centre of a sunflower.”


“You have some gold, in your eyes.” His voice was so quiet it hurt.

“I do?”

“The petals of the sunflower.”

Chapter 8 (Sunflower) - TFA - @looselucy

■Μια φορα μαλάκας, πάντοτε μαλάκας
■ Once an asshole, always an asshole.
■ Una vez un gilipollas, siempre un gilipollas.
Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle
Sur l’esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l’horizon embrassant tout le cercle
Il nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits ;

Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide,
Où l’Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,
S’en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris ;

Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées
D’une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu’un peuple muet d’infâmes araignées
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,

Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.

- Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
Défilent lentement dans mon âme ; l’Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l’Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.
—  Charles Baudelaire - LXXVIII, Spleen.
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