#PLEASE LOOK AT HERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

[s-099]

NINETY  -  NINE  ,  FIRE  TYPE  GYM  LEADER  !        verse  link  . 

[chiptrillino]

do you guys belive me when i say,... i just wanted to draw mai in the first image. and than zuko snuck in. being the idiot without a mouth filter. so i had to draw mai paying the favour back 10 years later? anyway... i have an art tumblr just wanted to tell you! stay safe!

[yukipri]

It's Anakin, what were you expecting...?

Or, the Anakin & Padmé Meme, a tragedy(?) in four parts.

~~

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, EDIT, TRANSLATE, OR OTHERWISE USE MY ART. To share, please reblog! Reblogs and comments greatly appreciated!!!

❀ You can see the rest of my art through the Masterpost pinned to the top of my blog!

[angelsaxis]

i need people, especially white people, to get used to the idea of ethnic groups not being defined by one or two specific traits. people need to realize that what you think might be specific to one group is actually easily found in countless other groups. im a darkskinned Black person, and there are Indians who are darker than me. I've seen Latinos with broader noses than I have and SEA/Eastern Asians with fuller lips than I have--none of that makes me less Black or any of them less of what they are. There's Africans with monolids and thin lips and small noses. while each group definitely has common traits, face shapes, tones, etc, its not like other things are absolutely excluded.

[aryll]

the light only you can see

[inkskinned]

i wasn't supposed to write about roses or blood or silver, about hearts or wings or galaxies; my teacher used to press her hands, firmly, to the top of our poetry stacks and beg us - love different. she was bored of it. i'd go home and write something with each of her off-limits words, emboldened by spite.

for a stint of time, i was a reader for a poetry magazine, shifting through thousands of submitted writings, each hopefully printed onto my tiny laptop screen for next-submission-viewing. one editor had a pile where we would put all the poems with parsnips or cauliflower, one pile for long-thin emergency rants that devolved into a blank scream, one pile for mentions of belladonna and chartreuse - for a whole year, i'd go to bed hearing chartreuse and silver and cities playing in my head in calligraphy. every three months, the beautiful public eye would become just-fascinated by pretty things. unusual, beautiful monstrosities. one winter, all about daises. the next, a fascination with posies. i watched the world spin from catching love in language to the same five phrases - help, it's ending, i'm alone, help, it's dark here, come home, help -

later, as an english teacher, i saw patterns. every semester, one million essays about four specific things. it wasn't pretty enough to be a teachable moment: the content they wanted to discuss was all extremely violent; a broken anthem of climate change and constantly being videoed is destroying us. i would wake up shaking, worried their visions were prophetic, soon-to-be-true. selfish, i couldn't handle the constant semester-to-semester panic they scribbled into six paragraphs, MLA-formatted text. read the world is ending fifty times every month; sob to your therapist i'm not doing enough, tell your students: please, no more violence, i don't have the right stomach.

each one seemed the same poem: we're dying, and nobody is coming to save us.

there are very few celebration poems these days. i want to rest my hand on a stack of poems about love in big red wings. love in a jacket, standing under an open galaxy. love written on the bicep, in an anatomically correct heart, with an arrow shot through the center so you can see the pink viscera of surviving a wound - so you know that even permanent tattoos are permeable. blood on the snout of a newborn lamb. silver rings around the pink scales of a pigeon's leg, and love with her hand around the ribs of a bird. i want to read boring essays about lunch. about which video games run the best graphics. about carnivals. about love in big cliche terms: standing in a garden of parsnips, clutching daises to her chest, eating raw meat over the body of a rich man.

i want to open the poetry magazine and have pages of sonnets about bluebells. about survival. about a mundane, beautiful spring. about sitting with your dog on a front porch, writing without spite, happily toying with the idea of ice cream.

my student sends me an email. i know you said to write about what brings you joy. but nothing really makes me happy these days. i don't know what i'm doing.

[happyheidi]

(via)

[paleroze]

[frenchublog]

Doctor 🐙

[cupcakeshakesnake]

~ＸＰ~

[ccomilk]

hi everyone!!!! I finished my animation!!! I've been working on this for a few months (or two weeks if you don't count the many breaks I took but shhhhh) and I'm really proud of it!!!!!! I hope y'all like it!!!!!!! <33333333

[anna-coded]

my friend asked me to make this and i simply had to deliver

[greededling]

[cookiescr]

Raya and Namaari life changing journey when?

[ghosted-jazz]

Black’s sober hue is associated with mourning in much of the world.

[caroldanversenthusiast]

give natasha romanoff back to me RIGHT NOW