*Stylinlions* "Born free, but still they hate. I’m born me, no I can’t change. And too much blood has flown from the wrists, Of the children shamed for those they chose to kiss." Larry Stylinson Believer. Supporter. and everything hurts. May God turn homophobic people into frogs. thank you.
Reblogged from fuckyeahzourry  1,741 notes

phillester-hottestlad2013: My mom met Harry styles oh my god please Jesus kill me

Reblogged from ohthefond  1,032 notes
tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #756 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
I want fireworks from mountaintops and lightning from windowsills.  I want lazy board games where rules forget to matter and I want shouting matches over important things.  I want a passion that burns through us and sets the sheets on fire.  I want to wake up covered in soot from the night before.  I want a hand to catch my head when my eyes fill up with water, and I want fingers to find my shoulders when the weight of a lifetime feels too heavy from time to time.  I want to be the tireless palms that rub the aches from your flesh and the kiss on the forehead after you fall asleep from it.  I want the steering wheel cold in my hands on the start of a morning road trip far from here and I want to be the sound of your legs stretching when we stop for gas.  I want the photos of every sign at the border of every state and I want my fingers slightly stained with the stamps from every visa in our passports.  I want the odor of strange food that snakes its way down long streets and the sound of boots on cobblestone and clay.
Part Two.

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #756 by Tyler Knott Gregson

Text for Tired Eyes:

I want fireworks from mountaintops and lightning from windowsills.  I want lazy board games where rules forget to matter and I want shouting matches over important things.  I want a passion that burns through us and sets the sheets on fire.  I want to wake up covered in soot from the night before.  I want a hand to catch my head when my eyes fill up with water, and I want fingers to find my shoulders when the weight of a lifetime feels too heavy from time to time.  I want to be the tireless palms that rub the aches from your flesh and the kiss on the forehead after you fall asleep from it.  I want the steering wheel cold in my hands on the start of a morning road trip far from here and I want to be the sound of your legs stretching when we stop for gas.  I want the photos of every sign at the border of every state and I want my fingers slightly stained with the stamps from every visa in our passports.  I want the odor of strange food that snakes its way down long streets and the sound of boots on cobblestone and clay.

Part Two.