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Showing posts from July, 2012
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— Kristina H., “The Poem I Forgot to Write”

I don’t think anyone deserves more than one poem in a lifetime.

But look at you, darling—
I’m giving you two.

The first was a mess,
all crossed out words and
six different pens that ran out of ink
making words that I swore
I’d never let anyone see.

This time it’s different.

This time I’ve managed to get
the color of your heart just right—
an almost-blue that fades into white

at the center.

I imagine it beats something like four times a year,
ringing in the seasons and then falling silent until
another quarter of the year passes by.

The scary thing about time
is that you can’t ever recover from it.

It’s so easily lost
like spare change between the sofa cushions,
the ‘I love you’ on the phone that always manages
to get swallowed up in static

and all the words of the dead that never get written down;
how all the spare paper in the world wouldn’t be enough to shape
their decayed vocal chords.

So it’s easy to take this for granted,
to take time and cradle it, you, in m…
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"I'm going to kill myself."

When people put this on their blog. They mean it. They aren’t fishing for attention, they’re not looking for attention. All they want is someone to tell them why they should keep going, why they need to keep going, they need reasons to live instead of reasons to die. If someone is going to be so narrow minded that they believe that every single person who posts that on their blog is attention seeking then you need to take a good look at yourself. This is what a blog is for, to express yourself, to express how we feel everyday. 

Every single day, people who feel the need to take their own life is looking for hope. They come on here, hoping that someone will actually give them reasons to keep going rather than taking their own life.. You don’t want to push someone over the edge when they come on here one last time looking for what they need to keep going.. You don’t feed them reasons to take their own life by saying they are looking for attention.

I've been there before.

I have. You think I don’t know what I’m talking about? Really?

You think that I don’t know what it feels like to be called ugly, to be called a slut, to be bullied. To feel the need to take my own life.

You think I don’t know what it is like to feel worthless, to feel like no one cares. To feel like as if I was to take my own life no one would care enough to stop me.

I have been there all before. I know what I am talking about. I write everything from the heart and I mean every single thing that I say. I mean absolutely every, single, word. I never want anyone to feel the way that I did, that I still do.

I know what it feels like, I do. Maybe not as worse as you had it or still have it, but I know enough to know what I am saying and why I say it.

Trust me enough to know that I am not lying. I know I may be a complete stranger but I mean every single word. I never want anyone to go through what I went through, I know I can’t stop things from happening. But the least that…
At some point when the darkness consumes me as night falls, I seem to hit a point where no matter how tired or dazed I was or am, I just don’t want to sleep. Not that I can’t but I have a overwhelming desire not to. It was as if it was essential that I stayed awake.
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“If I breathe you in and you breathe me out, I swear we can breathe forever. I swear I’ll find summer in your winter and spring in your autumn and always, hands at the ends of your fingers, arms at the ends of your shoulders and I swear, when we run out of forever, when we run out of air, your name will be the last word that my lungs make air for.”
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They lived in castles with closets full of missing shoes, notches in trees that spiraled into labyrinths fit for seven dwarves, searching for true love that suited queens and happily ever after’s that whispered of futures with romance and endings that weren’t for princes and princesses.

I lived on lands with mushrooms for ceilings and leaves for buildings, where doorknobs talked and bottles danced. I ran across stars and in streams and through mountains with elves and faeries, laughed with trolls and played with giants. I was surrounded by everything I ever looked for under rocks and maps labeled with X because the north star always led you home, and it pointed me to the second star to the right and I went straight on ‘till the next morning’s glow. I broke glass walls with pirate ships and slayed witches with lions, went to war with hobbits and filled the hollows of my life with wizard magic, adorned myself in feather headdresses and painted my face with jui…
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Moments pass by her eyes. Opportunities, chances to make a difference to her life and the lives of those surrounding her. “Reach out and grab them,” a little voice says. Try as she might though, she never can. Grasp them, yes, but they always escape between her shaking little fingers. So focused on them getting away, more pass her by. And she is lost, hurt because of it. Do the moments not like her? She fancies them. They are exciting, providing her with glimpses into the future of happiness, peace. And all she has to do is grab them, hold on to them. But it gets disheartening after a while, watching the moments fleet, running away. Do they not want to play? Do they really detest her that much? The shadows were right. Darkness, that is where she belongs. She has no hope, no strength. Not enough, anyways. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow, she will try harder. Yes, that is what she tells herself. When it is tomorrow, it turns into the tomorrow after that, and the one after that. An…
i am only what i own
and i swallow broken glass
to forget the pain of meaning
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It always rain hardest on the people who deserve the sun.

enough said.
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"You never know the biggest day of your life is going to be the biggest. The days you think are going to be big ones, they are never as big as you make them out to be in your head. It's the regular days, the ones that start out normal. Those are the days that end up being the biggest. And today was the wedding. it was beautiful. Perfect. you never know the biggest day of your life is your biggest day, not until it's happening. You don't recognize the biggest day of your life, not until you're right in the middle of it. The day you commit to something or someone. The day you get  your heart broken. The day you meet your soul mate. The day you realize there's not enough time because you want to live forever. Those are the biggest days. The perfect days. you know, it was a beautiful day."
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"I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,but now I want a Russian novel,a 50-page description of you sleeping." — Dean Young
What if clouds and lakes switched spots and every time you looked up you’d see waves being pulled by the moon and we’d wade through the clouds on a hot day. What if birds grew grass and the ground grew feathers. What if flowers were as tall as trees and trees as small as flowers.
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"If you’re dating a writer and they don’t write about you — whether it’s good or bad — then they don’t love you. They just don’t. Writers fall in love with the people we find inspiring."

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We were together. I forget the rest.

There is always one who will never abandon you

Things I love about you.

Eyelids are lavender hued in the sunlight, I can trace the veins. Nails are bitten around the edges. Moth wing eyelashes (unfair for a boy.) The ridge of your hipbone. The space between your two front teeth.Freckles on your shoulders, it looks as though light has kissed you there. The limbs of you are ungainly, you move as though you are tripping. (This is not the case when you play the piano, where you move like the music you make.) Your nose turns bright red when it is cold. Your arms when the sleeves of your shirt are rolled up. The tones of you are the trees books are made from. The curve of your ears remind me of conch shells, the sea lives inside of you. Pads of your fingertips feel like silver on my skin.You are electric.
I’m not fascinated by people who smile all the time. What I find interesting is the way people look when they are lost in thought, when their face becomes angry or serious, when they bite their lip, the way they glance, the way they look down when they walk, when they are alone and smoking a cigarette, when they smirk, the way they half smile, the way they try and hold back tears, the way when their face says they want to say something but can’t, the way they look at someone they want or love… I love the way people look when they do these things. It’s… beautiful.
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This is to you.
This is to you, his best friend.

The girl who puts up with more taunting, teasing, and endless torture that she ever should because she knows he teases the people he loves the most.
This is to you, the girl he always calls first to tell about his big news or just to talk to someone about the latest episode of Lost, even though he knows you don’t care, but you’ll listen.
This is to you, who picks him up at any hour, at any place, when he gets into another fight with his parents, and he knows you’ll drop everything to go and get him.

This is to you, one of the guys.
The one who laughs when they tell you they sometimes forget you’re a girl, or when they create new nicknames for you that aren’t cute, but mean something relating to you being a whore or a slut.
This is to you, the girl who was there when there was too much alcohol and too much loneliness in the room that night and things got carried away.

The girl who spent the next week hiding from her parents …
You twisted into shapes I couldn’t name
Sunflower bent like a twig to reach the sun
Snapped bark with fingers
To find the light.
And I loved you still.

When you drew away from that gulf inside of me
Curved yourself towards shinier, brighter things
I loved you still.
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The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over the Lazy Dog.

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“God knows, it’s as though you think our life is a romance novel.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Do you honestly think I don’t see the colour of disappointment in your eyes when you realise that I’m not throwing stones at your window, or bringing you goddamn cups of coffee every morning from Starbucks with a low fat scone, or I’m not chasing after you when we fight, freakin’ swirling you around the pavement in the pouring rain or whatever it is. Because I know that you wish you’d written me so I could laugh at every single fucking joke that you make, and smoke cigarettes even though we both know you hate it. And maybe, just maybe you should grow up and realise that life isn’t scripted, I’m not some fictional boy in one of your books. I’m real and I love you but I’m not going to be that guy for you. I refuse to be.”
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listen, there`s a hell of a good universe next door, let`s go

a bouquet of clumsy words: you know that place between sleep and awake where your still dreaming but it`s slowly slipping? i wish we could feel like that more often. i also wish i could click my fingers three times and be transported to anywhere i like. i wish that people didn`t always say ‘just wondering’ when you both know there was a real reason behind them asking. and i wish i could get lost in the stars.

- “Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls With Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair,” Jeanann Verlee

When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys call asking your cup size, say A, hang up. When he says you give him blue balls, say you’re welcome. When a girl with thick black curls who smells like bubble gum stops you in a stairwell to ask if you’re a boy, explain that you keep your hair short so she won’t have anything to grab when you head-butt her. Then head-butt her. 
When a guidance counselor teases you for handed-down jeans, do not turn red. When you have sex for the second time and there is no condom, do not convince yourself that screwing between layers of underwear will soak up the semen. When your geometry teacher posts a banner reading: “Learn math or go home and learn how to be a Momma,” do not take your first feminist stand by leaving the classroom.
When the boy you have a crush on is sent to detention, go home. When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boy with the blue mowhawk swallows your heart and opens his wrists, hide…
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I hope the moon shines bright enough to heal you well tonight. Love, I'm curious. Is it possible to date another writer? Or would it just be ruining it from the beginning?

Hello dearest, thank you, I hope so too.

Do you know, this is something I’ve considered several times on many occasions and truly, I think it would be beautiful but like that quote “she was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful.” I think it would be like that. Simply too difficult to contain, too much intensity and anger and fighting and passion and love. Personally, I don’t think I could be with another writer because, well, I’ve thought of myself. I am moody, emotionally dependant as well as unstable, I have violent outbursts, I can sulk for days.

I think another writer would merely be throwing gasoline onto an already burning situation. But in other ways, I’d like to be with someone who loves words with as much passion as I do. I imagine it would be rather warm, to wake up to the sound of a pen scratching on paper, or keyboard keys tapping or slow groans of frustration because God knows those words are pesky and they run away from us. I…
I like the smell of grass, and the world when it’s just rained and the way fresh linen makes my lungs feel as though they’ve just been cleanly washed and rinsed. Books make my face split into garish smiles. Orchids, are my favourite flower, they are elegant and beautiful, almost regal like royalty. Sometimes when we are driving by, I see a Weeping Willow and it feels as though every particle inside of my yearns to be near it, to bury myself in the soul underneath its trunk and to be the life that nourishes it. Weeping Willows remind me of rivers suspended in the sky. We talk about what the human soul is made of, if anyone can be born evil, we talk about which Harry Potter character we’d like to be, sometimes we play chess, ‘does anyone want that goddamn last biscuit? I’m on a diet but…’ (Somebody is always on a diet.)
Stories you read when you’re the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you’ll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit.
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oh i see how it is
bears can hibernate and it’s a “part of nature”
but when i do it’s “creepy” and “antisocial”

We are all so broken that we cannot break anymore so we break each other instead.

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Why shouldn't I kill my self?

“Why shouldn’t I kill myself?” In my sixteen years of life, I’ve been asked this question around four times and my response has always been “because I love you more than I love myself, because you are special and you are beautiful and you are intelligent and one day, you are going to change the world. Because there is more to life than sadness and depression and the things that make you put a blade to your wrist or make you pop pills. And more than that, because if you kill yourself then something inside of me will die too.” And this applies to you.

I don’t know you, but someone feels this way about you.
Probably more than just a someone feels this way about you and do you know what that means? It means that you’re so much more than those bad feelings, you’re so much better than that. Life isn’t always beautiful and I’ll be the first to tell you that, sometimes people are mean and cruel and hateful but sometimes people are loving and warm and kind and that unfurls from the…
I want someone to vibe with - someone who wouldn’t mind singing their heart out and have me join in with them. I want someone to converse with - someone who doesn’t make me yap all the time, but someone who would nudge me when I’m silent and someone I can nudge when they’re silent. I want someone to miss - someone who keeps me on my toes and at the edge of my seat. Actually, I just want someone who won’t leave.
this is sad. Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
It’s terrible how we spend so much of our lives feeling sad or bad or simply not good enough. In the desire to be something more than what we are, we lose who we really are and in some ways, that’s the biggest tragedy. How we can turn blind to the things that are rotting inside of us, the things we could have saved if we’d paused to look for them, those cracks that could have been closed. It’s the losses that we don’t see which are the ones that affect us the most because we don’t mourn for them.

I’ve seen men lose themselves to whiskey and women standing on street corners and idealisms inside of me expect to see something in their eyes. Something that’s sad or striving but there’s no expression in the lines of their face, and that’s the single worst thing, to look into the face of somebody and see absolutely nothing at all. Ghosts, I think, make a person and when those pieces of you aren’t there, then what else is there to go on for? Most days I want to shake people unt…

Can everyone be a darling and check this girl out on youtube?

SIOBHAN911

listen to things I want to do with you.
It's her original.
And it's good.
I promise.

"What's wrong with you?"

I either like someone too much. Or not at all.
Do you ever get so bone deep terrified that one day you’re going to lose everyone who you’ve ever loved? And no amount of rationality or logical thinking can make you stop shivering inside of yourself and sometimes you want to dilute everyone and clutch them to you because that way, they can’t ever be gone.
everyone : *think I care*
me : doesn't give two flying fucks.
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I wish light were something you could swallow, stored in bottles or jars. So there’d be no amount of sadness that would overtake you whole because you could just drink light and be illuminated from the inside out.

Did any of you manage to catch a glimpse of the Moon last night? She was especially vain and hung in her patch of sky, stealing the attention away from the stars. Someone said she was half illuminated by Venus and that was probably the reason for her preening. How can one not be vain when the Goddess of Love and Beauty is shining herself down upon you? Then again, the Moon hardly needs the help.

How do you stop loving someone who long since stopped loving you?

Remember to not throw away those pieces of them inside of you, because your memories were created out of love and should not be forgotten. But you also have to remember that looking back upon something that no longer exists does not achieve anything and can only hurt you. You can’t stop loving someone, as simple as that. Unfortunately there is no off switch for emotion (as much as I wish there were). Once an individual has got inside your blood then they stay there, be it a week or a month or a year but they’re not permanent and you need to remember that. You’re probably awash with sadness right now, the people who know you can probably see it reflecting in your eyes but you need to stop trying to think about this person, you need to breathe, you need time for yourself and those memories that keep you awake at night? You need to place them inside a special box inside of your head and lock them up and don’t relive them. Move forward, don’t look back. There’s no other way.…
In times like this, I want to hurt myself. For no apparent reason. But I won't. Because I know I'm better than this. Because I promised I wouldn't. Because it'll be a regret tomorrow morning. Because if I do, I would disappoint so many people. I would disappoint myself. It's scary. Honestly. I can't find the right words to phantom how I feel like at this exact moment. And that is terrifying. It's an unbalanced ratio of tiredness and emptiness with a mix of nostalgia, euphoria, nirvana and a comforting numbness. Take all of that, shake it well. Don't mix it for too long or it might wear out. Pour it into a pan and bake at 120 degrees. Allow cool before removing from pan. And there you have it. What I'm feeling. Sometimes you wish you could tell your feelings to calm down. To slow down so you can breathe. To compress itself until it's nothing but a minuscule piece of string. To wrap itself into a little ball and stow itself away in one …
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"He showed me his smile, And went straight for my heart."

she watches as he glides across the room. not noticing the lust filled stares he gets from the people he passes. she always liked people like that, the ones that didn’t know how beautiful they really were. he chuckles at a joke. his smile ignites something inside of her; she’s hit with the desire to tell him all the things he should know already. she wants to be the one to tell him how it seems as if the sun shines behind his eyes. dazzling onlookers and outshining everything in the sky. explain how his full lips are perfect. perfect for grazing collarbones and wrists and necks. or show him, if even just for a second, that he might just be the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

he studies the way she carefully sips her drink. memorizing how her lips pout just slightly as they hug the delicate glass. she’s eying everyone in the room, oblivious to his longing gaze. he likes that, the fact that she’s unaware how everyone’s eyes gravitate towards her. like she’s the s…
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If she haunts you still, then you shouldn't have let her go, then. You should've held on, you should've chased after her, you should've asked her to stay. You should not have taken her for granted. But it's too late now, and she's just gone.
do you ever think that if things weren’t named
the way they are
life would be a whole lot different

like if crying was called singing
and tears were notes falling in perfect harmony
would we really be that sad?

or if distance was called laughing
and every mile between us was a silly joke
would it really seem that bad?

but you’ll always be called you
because when it comes to that
you were named just right

Things I Want To Do With You - Siobhan Morris (original)

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Lets hold hands lets lets lets talk for hours and not care care what people say chill at coffee shops we'll take photos of nature beaches trees while we're on dates we can watch an action movie fall asleep while watching the movie cause i dont necessarily like them you are special to me can we go on an adventure? to places we've never been before like to my pants. can we make jokes like that? pretend we're in an action movie didnt you say you liked action movies? i can pretend to like them then fall asleep.... you are special to me at the end of the day close your eyes and lie next to me and i need to tell you that i tell you that i tell you i.... want you to finish my sentence by putting your lips on mine
I've been meaning to tell you this.I love you. I love you. I love you.I've always loved you.
I will love you.
I want you and me. Hand in hand. Walking around aimlessly. I want you. Today tomorrow forever.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
But we didn’t meet at the wrong time, we met in near perfect splendor. I smiled with my mouth full of metal and his tiny wrists flicked to grab in between my pudgy fingers, then. He had a semi bowl cut if he didn’t use gel and that was still nice to me, then, too. And the fact that I had boy short hair didn’t throw him off guard either, or maybe, just a little. But about the few things we agreed upon was the timing. The conditions and timing for us were perfect and that summer was perfect. I just don’t recall when things began to change. And suddenly, growing no longer seemed so gradual and lovely, suddenly, growing up became serious and frightening. And before I could have a say, we both fell into our own sanctuaries of being vulnerable and being vulnerable means to be afraid. So before we could even pause to breathe or take a break, we both became so afraid. And perhaps that’s when timing decided to give up on us, or rather, let us go on our own little ways just to dip…
“You’ll never understand” she said,
“what it’s like to be this sad”
wrapped up in that banana thought
brown at the edges,
soft centered
the kind of naive that crumbles like limestone
the kind of tender that is cut open by the earth, the mantle filet knife is omnipresent and teaches her, teaches us all how to hurt.
“you’ll never understand what it’s like to lose a father, to watch him stop playing with you, watch him stop picking you up from school, watch him stop calling you ‘princess,’ the ringing hollow, the silent king
and know the only reason is
“god has a reason for him”
she spat fire
and started eating away at her cheap cigarette like a rat
“I fucking hate god” she said in a tiny world of smoke, her tiny voice now
raunchy, full of sex and secrets and crunch, her tiny hands rubbing tears away from her lashes,
her tiny body letting her big soul hurt.
“you’ll never understand what it’s like to lose a younger brother, to find him a blue statue on the floor, inches aw…
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how to be happy:

• live alone in the woods.
• hang old love letters upside-down & from a clothesline.
• marry the moon.
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A reminder:

those harsh words
you utter, may not
cut your brittle lips.
instead, they carve
a hole around some
soul.

— “Please move to Vermont and break my heart,” Gregory Sherl

"I am writing a book on how to write a book so I can learn how to properly explain why you look better with the lights on. I listen to a song but it doesn’t mention your name so I stop listening to the song. Your heart is noise pop. White noise is ghosts missing the streamers that fall from your ears while you sing in the car. Vermont is not far if you are already in Vermont. My cat looks at me and then walks away. He is named either after a famous musician or a body of water. There are so many words I refuse to learn how to spell. Still, I spell check your thighs after I bend you over my desk. I spell check the inside of your left ear while you bite yourself on the kitchen table. Prostrate. Today I am writing in grunts, I am playing in fonts. My chest hair is size 44 Comic Sans. My eyebrows are whittled away before I leave the mall. I have sat under the same sun as you for 25 years. Sometimes I have walked under the same sun as you. Once, I played tennis under the s…
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Rock.

So yesterday night, I had a really long heart to heart talk with this hell of an amazing guy, and I swear it's been eons since something like that happened. At first, we were arguing, real bad. Up to the point where, if we could, choke each other in real life. But eventually, things were sorted out. And I don't know what lead us there, but we talked. About everything. And I surprisingly told him most of my deepest secrets. And if you know me, I don't usually go around doing that. But I did, and it felt amazing. It was so relieving, like as if the weight of the world has just been lifted off of my shoulders. I can't even begin telling you how amazing it felt. And that's not the best part. He didn't flip the fuck out on me like how people usually would. He didn't call me a freak. He didn't get mad. He didn't label me emo or attention whore. He went away for a bit, came back with this ridiculously long paragraph of what I should do to avoid s…
Happy. Contented. Very indeed.
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Apparently the worst part about me is that I’m not clingy or even the slightest bit attached to people and that makes me a heartless person. How is that even reasonable? It’s not because I don’t like being attached to people. The fact of the matter is that I just don’t care or mind a lot of things. You can hang up on me and I’ll just put my phone down and do whatever I was doing before I picked up. You can ignore me for days and I wouldn’t bother you until you’re ready to talk to me. You can even leave me and I wouldn’t bother chasing after you because if I actually meant something then you wouldn’t have left and because you meant something to me, I’d respect your decision to leave. You can give me short responses and I wouldn’t even complain because I do the same time to time. Why bother arguing or even discussing such trivial things which can end up harming the relationship instead of helping it? There’s a reason why I don’t get offensive so easily and that’s because I …
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Oh how long I’ve wanted to tell you…
that it’s been almost half a year.
And I’m still not over you.
No, not one bit.

"I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time."

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And when I start to think about it, my hands begin to perspirate, my heart pounds with ferocity, my voice fluctuates while my stomach churns, and my mind loses it’s focus.

The reality of the situation won’t come into play for years, but it’s a dream, and it might be the overworked mind over-thinking the situation, but dreams have such a copious amount of influence on an individual. They’re the reason people attempt to strive in life, they are the motive that encourages individual to execute the actions they do.

It truly is a haunting thought to think that a dream, something desired immensely, can wither and die with life’s monotonous routine. It is anxious and eerie to not accomplish even a portion of something you’ve always desired, of this dream that lingers in the crevices in the mind.


It clouds the mind–injecting it with bliss, and sadness–while sending neurotic impulses throughout the body. Enveloping the body and soul with intricate sentiments, and it is in this th…
we can dance at the edge
of the world,
you and me.
i’d have you,
and you’ve have me,
and we’d be alright,
we’d both be warm.
we’d be alright if lady luck ever did once
smile down on me.
(people like you don’t happen to people like me.)





"Memories are what warm you up from the inside. But they’re also what tear you apart."

Kafka on the Shore,Haruki Murakam
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Sorry I've been inactive lately.

I've been on instagram a lot. Follow me @obelc if you want :3
it’s kind of sad when you’re just so lonely, laying in bed, just thinking and stuff and you just like need someone like really bad because its so dark and there’s too much space around you and too many thoughts that need to be shared

Chelsea Fagan, Where Does Love Go When It Dies?

This isn’t about a broken heart. A broken heart implies a kind of shattering, a searching the hardwood floor for pieces that might have gotten lost under the couch. Yours isn’t broken, it’s long-since been patched together and, despite the occasional stutter, functions quite well. This is about a heart that aches with memories too big for its fragile little form, that is bursting on all sides from love that longs to be accepted, to at least be vocalized. This is a heart that dies a slow, quiet death from this awful need we have to pretend as though something never existed the second that it is over.
I write because I have to, but sometimes I just can’t bring myself to document this speeding river of thoughts coursing through me: they run too fast; can’t bring myself to set this is stones; string them along like perfect silk threads and fairy lights glowing dimly, because writing what I am who I’ve been what I’ve been through breaks the illusion: it makes things real. (i can’t afford to make any of this real, either.)
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I've known this for some time now. I don't have anyone to talk to genuinely. And that's sad, really. Even back then, before the drama unravelled, I never really had anyone to talk to. Everyone I told was either just curious or don't give two flying fucks. It's real hard to find someone who actually gives a damn and who isn't just curious nowadays. Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
Then you tell yourself that you’re not going to love again. And I’m sure you meant it at the time and you can deny this all you want, but somewhere beneath all the bitterness and self-destructive bravery you’re still hoping for someone to save you.
Read other people’s writing: dead people, famous people, not famous people. A lot of it. Find what you like. And then read some more.Read poetry out loud. Yours, other peoples’. Do it. It tastes good I promise, and it gives you a sense of the music hiding in words. Also listen to slam poetry because it is awesome. Try to find the grace in your everyday life and experiences. Write about specific instances, no matter how insignificant they seem. If you can remember it at the end of the day, it was significant. Fuck all of the rules. Grammar, avoiding cliches, screw it. Do what you want. Use concrete words. For example instead of trying to write about love, try writing about a broken finger. You’d be surprised how quickly you can get to an honest place about love from a broken finger. But also, see #4.Try to cut out any superfluous or not-purposefully repetitive bits. My pet peeve is when a word (more complex than “the” “and” “you” etc) is used more than once in the same poem …
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5th, 1:27 We photograph things in order to drive them out of our minds. My stories are a way of shutting my eyes.

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I broke
a vow
like it
was a
cookie
jar, like
I was a
starving
child.







But my god, does this feel good. Ruby red against ice cold skin.
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And I am really exhausted from all this. Save me?
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A list of moments and feelings:

Early mornings when the whole world isn't really awake yet.Cold breezes on a hot day.Road trips that consists of you, me and the mixtape you made me.The sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore.That warm fuzzy feeling you get when you hear a song you haven't heard in a while.The sound of a child's laughter, so vulnerable, yet filled with happiness.Jumping on a trampoline, and feeling the wind in your hair.Being at a concert surrounded by people who all love the same music as you.The taste of tea after a long, sad day.When you finish reading a really great book and you feel like you've lost a friend.

this is me to pretty much everyone.

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“nothing I ever say may be beautiful, but there is nothing beautiful in our goodbyes.”

You feel lost and all you want is to be found. And when you’re found, you want to feel acknowledged. You want to feel like you have worth, as if you have a reason to exist in this world. You want to experience love. You want to love and be loved. And you want a love that will last forever— even though you know that nothing lasts forever. You don’t want to feel hurt, betrayed, or abandoned— when these are the very emotions that almost every single human being will go through at least once in their life. You want to have more smiles than tears. And if you drop tears, you want them to be of joy. You want to feel beautiful about yourself, but you don’t know how. You want to have a reason to wake up every single morning. At times you feel like dying, but truthfully, you just want to feel alive. You want more good memories than bad ones. You wish you had hope, because all of the hope that you had before was merely false. You want to make something out of yourself— but you’re …

Pick up line.

Boy: I love that book that you're reading.
I am constantly hurting. But I am constantly writing all of this into stories, into chapters carved into the sand and into ballads softly whispered like lovers holding hands and into poems plucked like he-loves-me-not-petals, into webs spun in the illuminated darkness, threading parts of people, parts of me into words, into finite immortality. (we all still say we hurt, but the pulse in our chest never stops)

Do you want to know why I use a knife? Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the... little emotions. you see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are.
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