(Source: alternativelie, via ireallymoustache)
(via inconfuckingspicuous)
(Source: cait-sidhe, via inconfuckingspicuous)
(Source: missupsetter, via thereshe-goes)
(via kawaiijezebelle)
Ode on Melancholy
Though you should build a bark of dead men’s bones,
And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast.
Stitch creeds together for a sail, with groans
To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast;
Although your rudder be a dragon’s tail
Long sever’d, yet still hard with agony.
Your cordage large uprootings from the skull
Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail
To find the Melancholy—whether she
Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull.
Deleted Stanza.
Keats <3
fucking twat, man
(Source: plainanduseless, via inconfuckingspicuous)
(Source: bitchassbidness, via pijin)
A Valentines night in with…
Keats
Shelley
Wordsworth
Coleridge
and Byron
Far more romantic than what the majority of loved up saps have indulged in today.
(Written, no doubt with a sense of bitter jealousy. Christ now i sound like every other single person, booo)
