Caribbean Gypsy

And if I sing of snow, it won’t be poisoned,
falling on gravestones and in rivers.
And if I mention grandfathers, they won’t drool
from wheelchairs, unless they’re stolen wheelchairs,
they won’t bounce anyone on their knee, they won’t
be fallen gods. They’ll all be old warlocks and Reds,
telling you how it used to be. All the snakes
St. Patrick cast out of Ireland will be there, and the wolves
got themselves hunted out of England, they’re
there, too.

—Katherine Hollander, “Poem,” published in Sugar House Review (via bostonpoetryslam)

yagazieemezi:

Sand Sculptors of Durban:

"Most often spotted alongside the pier, armed only with a spade, their hands and imagination, the sand-artists spend their days creating marvellous works of art for public admiration in the hopes of a steady stream of donations as this is often their only means of survival. Passers-by sometimes offer extra money so they can be photographed with these works of art, some of which can take up to a week to complete depending on size and detail, only to be destroyed in minutes. 
So why do their creators make them? Some of these guys are homeless teenagers - sculpting often means they don’t have to go to bed on an empty stomach. For others, the money they make is used to travel to and from home, or to pay for shelter for the night.” (Source)

(via yagazieemezi)

fyblackwomenart:

Feminine Minorities by sparklyfawn.tumblr.com My last concept piece of the school year. It about 4 methodologies of art. I choose feminism. 
~To see the other illustrations that go along with this CLICK HERE!

fyblackwomenart:

Feminine Minorities by sparklyfawn.tumblr.com

My last concept piece of the school year. It about 4 methodologies of art. I choose feminism.

~To see the other illustrations that go along with this CLICK HERE!

(via everblues)

If I told them
That I cried myself to sleep every night for months
And the nights I didn’t cry
Were because I smoked and drank myself into such a stupor
I couldn’t think
That some nights I bled
Bled
And not because I had to
That it felt like I was stuck in a black fog where every time I called for help
I sank a little deeper
I despised smiles
And laughter
And talking
And sounds
But silence was torment
Because my demons tip-toed on my heart
Whispering every wrong I had ever done
Every wrong done to me
And demanded to know why I was so weak
That every day was a Monday
And even the most beautiful sunrise
Reminded me that I didn’t want to be alive
And maybe if I stayed in bed long enough
And didn’t eat
I’d disappear in this fog
And never come back
That no-one would miss me
That I was a waste
That I went so close to the edge
Dabbled my toes in the deep end
That I was seconds away from losing my mind
From deciding sanity was a construct of the happy
And the only happiness I would find
Was if the world didn’t exist
Except in the depths of madness
 
They would say:
You are strong
You are stronger than the way your skin resists the sun
You are too clever
Too smart to lose your mind
You are too happy
Too much a natural radiation of joy
They would tell me this depression
Does not exist.

—If I told them…, Nicki Nemb (via cruisinontheblue)