isadorahaze: Forget-me-not nymph thinks in rings of violet-bleu In amnesiac stars with softened points Spinning on in the modest infinity her myth maintains. And the twilight blush her mind seeps through. Floret cast in the hue of foretime Or of heaven’s midriff billowing.

When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty. Stevie Nicks  (via michaelgordons)

And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see – or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read. Alice Walker (via quosoc)