Breathe out your fear
Along with your tears
Then happy days
Might come your way
DustDusty fingers move quickly,
When they are sickly.
Clean Fingers make haste,
because they don't have the time to waste.
Lopsided FeelingTears run down my face, I cry
Inside and out but you dont know why
It because of your skull of steel
That my thoughts dont turn your wheel
Im weakened and starved by your words
But that doesnt meant Ill allow my flesh to be eaten by the birds
I amI am the child that waits
I am the child that fears
I am the child that worries you'll never be here.
I am the teen that hits
I am the teen that cries
I am the teen who is always asking 'Why?'.
I am the adult that works
I am the adult that fears
I am the adult of the child that waits for me to be there.
Excerpt From FB Fan-FictionThree hundred sixty two days, Kyou reminded himself with an indifferent voice.
The cat couldnt figure out that out of everyone that he could never see again, why did she have to go. Why did she have to leave him in the shadows. Why couldnt she stay? Within his mind he kept replaying the scenario constantly over and over again in his brain even though he knew the answer. The carrot top shook his head fervently trying to shake the images of her delicate kind face from his head. He was foolish to love her, to care for her, and to try to protect her.
To try and defy God...
The wind blew solemnly tossing hair in his face. Closing his eyes he let stray strands of hair tickle his furrowed brow. Fat puffy grey beasts rolled around the sky soaking up its moisture, they growled with pleasure as they began to approach the Sohma residence. Just as the young man stood up and began to file out curses towards the clouds he heard the petite slam of a d
bitter.somewhere between his
gasping green eyes
there is the lip print
of a woman he doesn't remember.
she doesn't exist to him anymore
(speck of ash in a city that she is),
but she does to me.
so when he comes home,
grab him by the tie
slam him to the wall
until the press of my lips
defiles the grave of
a girl who once
thought he was beautiful.
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.
Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.
Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.
Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.
The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.
Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.
When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.
Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.
Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
life is but an open wound
forever drowining us
people are foolish
to think that they can stop us
but they cant
each one of us is filled with flaws
good and bad
we are different
yet the same
no one can truely see
what we see
they will never understand
there might be others like us
but we are alone
EmoSo what if I'm emo?
So what if I cry?
I'm not THAT emotional,
I dont want to die.
So what if I dress in a different style?
There's no need to scream and run for a mile
I dont like to cut and abuse my arm,
I am not depressed,
so why cause self harm?
Could it be that I am just like you?
That I can smile, giggle and laugh along too?
Could it be that I am happy with myself?
It's just that I am not some pretty doll on the shelf.
Could it be that the only reason i dye my hair black;
Is because I dont want to be some barbie in a bimbo girl pack.
These are the reasons, and I'll tell you why,
that I dont look in the mirror and start to cry.
I know Im not perfect,
I'm sure you will agree
But I am so very positive,
as positive as can be
That Im not like you,
Oh dont make me laugh!
I dont spend hours on my make-up's mask
I'm totally self-confident,
Ill smile for all to see.
Because the great thing about being emo,
Is that I am happy, with just being me.
Dont be afraid of who you are.<
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A Penis
Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.
Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.
.He nestles acorns
in the crook
behind my ear,
crawls into my collarbone
to mound pine needles
head and heart.
I hope he'll
spend his nights here,
secrets kept safe in me.
ElsewhereI do not cede your life to you.
All things begin in my aching bed.
Baristas, starmen, nothing has survived the light.
The living lose their space to me.
The last fond ritual before the ghosts will be allowed their speech
is the moment that I really live, when I breed all neurotic wants at once:
to king, to beggar, to whore out every figure
yet to be betrayed by gross approximation
and dumbly muddled by these dumb fingers.
The all important touch is just a disillusioned brute
hanging like an ugly halo around an arbitrary mass
that hosts your hidden magic.
And I kill the world to have it.
What bizarre and dissolute intelligence births itself in a hot smear of thought,
infests the throbbing slums of my sentience with ideas,
hungers and machinates for a free and unkempt soul,
reams into the deep darknet to damn my lazy search for hell,
or no, but to illuminate this damning of my design
and uncouple me from centuries of tiresome ontologies?
I’ve waited for the searing sign to emblaze