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Robin Williams

Life is written like a riddle,
Feeling like I’m just a puzzle piece, forced into the middle.
Scared to go outside,
Because my hoodie, Arizona and some skittles.
Niggas of my own kind with a pistol.
Out of luck and,
not sure who trust-in.
Protect and serve? Pro / techs like white on blacks out in Ferguson.
A vicious cycle,
They shoot him, we bond like it’s you,
march because the neighbor says it’s the thing we should do.
Where’s the truth?
Prolly acute with Iraqi troops.
The gaza truce, Malaysian planes, or the Russian youth.
Pollute our neighborhoods, watch us loot.
in the middle of the globe, selfie pole hash tagging cute.

It’s all fucked.


Because in the cold, you can’t fall asleep. You’re left to shake and shiver, starving for warmth. As frost chips away at your breath and fingers start to blacken, your thoughts are the only bit of color that keeps your mind from going pale. Frosted, frozen, forever forgotten.

And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.

unknown (via awelltraveledwoman)

I use to hate the term, ‘kiddo’, before meeting someone who said it with the utmost sincerity. I read this in their voice and it made a few tears fall. 

(via alphavulpecula)

(via birthanddeathofthesun)