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Them BoysBoys only like you scraping your knees.
They tell you your hair smells nice and that your dress is very pretty, but they don’t care, and you don’t mind, because you’ve been secretly thinking you’re ugly.
Boys don’t cry.
They produce a small kidney stone every time they hold in tears, so they don’t lose manliness.
But you can literally try crying at a packed bus station, and no one will stop to look at you.
I wish I were on my knees for you. I wish you said something nice, even lied about something nice.
I don’t know, I don’t care.
NoticeFragile existence. One day you're annoying your parents, watering your plants, consuming tea, and producing organic waste, the next, you realize, you're just your carbon footprint, a post-it on the fridge, white noise of an old television.
This memory from 7 years ago. Random unflattering photograph. Eye shadow in the back of the washing machine.
People around you should change this notion you don't matter.
People should matter.
I should matter.
They should notice if you haven't been yourself in months, or if your eyes look puffy all the time.
They should care.
Just notice me.
Someone, notice me.
AvoidWhat a strange idea.
If the chandelier were to fall on me, from that specific altitude, it would crush my ribcage, I'd die in a matter of thirty-four minutes.
It would be such a terrible accident.
A tragedy, really.
Some uncrafty builders and their awful ceiling installations.
"She was a promising human being."
Just to avoid the embarrassment of suicide.
They say it's a word that's used to describe when people wish to express a feeling of nostalgia for a place they've never visited.
For years I dreamt of busy cityscapes of Beijing, London, or a simple a mountain cabin up in the north, very far from where I am.
I lost that feeling. You shouldn't get nostalgic for blocks of concrete, or the suitable weather, I suppose. It bears no meaning. Not really.
When I close my eyes, I register your fingers on my forearms, I can imagine the perfect hug. I brush my cheek off the rough texture of your sweater, and with every deep breath I seem to inhale old books, wet ground, and a vaguely present scent of mulberry.
All of that from just seeing you once, twice, maybe, if you count thinking that might have been you, in a yellow Volkswagen automobile passing my side, on a particularly sad day, and me looking away, out of fear it actually is you.
I wonder is there a pretty foreign word for being homesick for people you've never actually
A dayI cried in the locker room - no one noticed.
I cried on the bus on my way home. This old couple was staring at me - their faces phasing between pity and disgust. No one asked me if I was okay.
Why did I cry?
I don't know.
There's one or maybe two major fuck ups in my life. Like telling dad I'd rather kill myself than be seen with him, and actually meaning it, or that time I pretended I couldn't hear the blind guy asking for help across the street. These things are horrifyingly true, but they happened ages ago, yet I perpetually feel so bad, about that, about me, about everything.
I guess, today was about a piece of trash teacher accused me of copying my schoolwork, and running into a guy who called me dumb a year and a half ago.
Anything qualifies today.
It's just one of those days I feel like dying.
InaptHere I am at two AM on Google maps virtually strolling down a snowy scenery of somewhere, thinking every possible photograph of the world has been already taken, and nothing I can do can ever amaze anyone.
I wish there was a punchline.
A lover, so doughy eyed and gentle, so living with him should be considered artistry - as a reward from the Universe that cares for those not gifted enough to offer something better. Here have some love, cause your anguish won't produce a masterpiece.
Yet, I get to turn in my bed for nothing more than vacant introspection that can't bring epiphany to someone distant, a strong sense of disability of relating to anybody.
Here have some courage, live the life you dream of painting. Live so big, so extravagant your existence becomes an inspiration to those capable of amazing.
I wish this has an optimistic ending, but no, it's two AM, and I'm sitting here, in the dark of my room, wasting my time thinking of various clichés to des
If I had a therapist, I'd show him thisDepression centers me.
It feels good to feel low, for a while, before the seed of it overgrows me.
Like a moldy cover that sticks to my skin, and doesn't let me get up.
It compliments my anxieties, at first. The pressure of doing something perfectly is met by a will to be invisible, and not having a single ambitious thought, so I end up somewhere in the middle, very average, and goddamn safe.
The hurtful brightness of my woeful apprehensiveness is washed out by the most beautiful, silent greys.
Thank you for being mean.
liarthere's nothing more sad than seeing someone loves that thing you stopped being ages ago. I will never go back to being that disgusting, little, unsure thing, but I can't stop lying to you.
car crashI wish I could crash in your tiny bed, after a long day at Uni. You'd creep up behind me, and hold me with your strong, spider arms, and plant kisses on my neck, and ideas of a bigger apartment in my mind.
"Some day, we'll have thirteen cats."
Scent of basic soap and tomato sauce.
It's NotIt's not the lipstick gloss
that makes a kiss
the warm pulse beating through
It's not their size
but the words they whisper,
It's not the color
nor the length
nor the glint
of her hair
that makes her special
it is her smile
in the falling rain
reflecting the joy
of yet another Spring,
It's not the time
she spent getting beautiful
that makes her so
but in fact
it is the hours
she was besides my bed
when I was sick
and in fact
it is the minutes
I could hear her breathe
in my embrace
AND in fact
it is the seconds
I saw her cry
(out of happiness)
Because she's beautiful.
It's not the clothes,
nor the jewellery,
nor the colored nails,
nor the drawn-in brows,
nor the words she says
to other people,
and neither it is
It is her mind
that entertains my poems,
it is her charm
that paints my cheeks
and averts my shy eyes from her
It is her soul,
that I love.
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,
brine your blood, and seashells
melded into your skin.
You were not quite an ocean
when you said "This is your sign to love me."
My body was like a building;
tall, cold, almost unbreakable.
I was metallic and sharp,
towering over your waters.
I remember taking your hand in mine,
conch and coral shells scrubbing
my skyscraper wrists, and laughing
about how one day you would
submerge every last bit of me.
Your lips, riddled with argonauts,
found my cheek and I cringed
at the coarseness.
You asked if they bothered me
and I finally told you "I
think I love you."
The Origins Of The Ice Queen (Story)
As the Duke slammed into the cold, hard ground, Elsa knew that she had only made the accusations worse. As the fear began to consume her she ran out of the castle's huge, wooden gates, her breath increasing in speed and intensity the whole time. She heard a familiar voice shout after her. "Elsa! Wait!" It was her sister Anna. She was 2 years younger than Elsa and had a beautiful young face with a rosy complexion and had strawberry blonde hair with a white highlight in it. She wore a green and black royal gown with a flowery pattern over the torso. It was perfect for the coronation that had taken place that day. However, it was not so perfect for chasing the new Queen. "Elsa please! Stop!" Anna shouted at her terrified sister. Elsa started to sprint even faster now, she flicked her wrist and created an icy path in an attempt to slow down her ever worrying sister. Anna slipped and fell onto her behind. She let out a small yelp as she sat, stunned for a moment. She looked up and saw Elsa
SIRENNeath the woe of Ulysses' blood and toil,
A sea of heavenly-fury once awaken'd
Her gaze clad in honey’d delirium ablaze
Of such beauteous prize, he shall yield;
For her tongue hath seized mortal desire
And lo the Moons’ glory shall weep in vain!
Journey’s of madness sung with promise;
— A rising tempest hurl'd to Hades reign
Oceanic rhythms untwine love forbidden,
Breaking the mists of insatiable dreams
The Sirens call ebbed like darkness falling;
Her lust bleeding into the mythic abyss ..
His anguish bestow'd the folding tides,
Unto their lips would perish in mystery
Deeper jewel'd the haunting of his soul,
Forsaken to the ink of Orpheus' muse.
And ghostly twilight shone low and pale,
O’er the hum of those ethereal seas
Long wherest his heart shall forever sail
— Arthur Crow © 2014
SixI am weak
And I am cold.
You are strong
And you are warm.
I am incomplete,
But with you
I'm made whole.
I am dirty
And covered in mud.
You are clean
And your heart is pure.
What is my world
If it doesn't include you?
I am harsh
And I am rough.
You are gentle
And you are smooth.
Without your love
I am nothing,
And life has no worth.
I am broken
And I am bent.
You are right
And you are true.
And this is why I'm loving you:
You're the beautiful one
Between us two.
SevenEach day is a new struggle.
Each day is an uphill fight.
I go out, and I wage war against them,
And I lose.
Then I come home,
Beaten and bruised,
They won the last one,
They'll win the next.
They'l win all the rest,
Until I'm finally dead.
But I am a warrior,
And one who will protect,
One who will serve,
Until his dying breath.
And why do I go out each day?
Why dawn my dented armor?
Because I know what I'm fighting for.
And though they may have victory,
And the sparkling spoils of war...
I have you,
And that is enough
To make me get out of bed each day,
To walk out the door,
To draw my sword and fight them,
To come home beaten yet once more;
But then I see your face
And I know I'd go through it all again
If it meant I won your love,
If it meant your affection.
For you I would fight this many battles:
Seven times seven times seven.
Sexual TensionI see the lust in his eyes,
a whirlwind of locked desire,
looking for a way to be unleashed
There's hidden intentions in all he does
He's always finding an opportunity
for our skins to touch
I want him to cross the line
I want to feel what he feels
I don't want to be forbidden anymore
I want to be his sweet meal
To feel different hands on my body
would awaken what I've been trying to hide
The fact that I want him to take me
I can no longer deny
I wish I could touch his body,
feel him up with my hands;
rub myself against him,
do his every command
RadianceHer hair is like gold
Framing a radiant face
That makes the sun jealous
Her eyes are pools of mercury
Deep and entrancing
Giving everyone pause
Her smile shines like the stars
Brightening any dark day
With a laugh clean as crystal
How proud I am to call her mine
As she calls me hers
From here on and ever
StrippedI long for a life of not a single responsibility, but your precious frail heart.
As we'll stumble upon each other, like onto an atlas of a forgotten district - you'll appreciate the lines on my face for they are an estuary of an ancient river, and I'll cherish the working blisters on your strong hands for they stood out proud of their diligence.
I haven't any other propositions. Affections shouldn't be afflictions, they should be easy and painless, smooth and transparent.
Complexity's never on the table.
Perfection of Monotony is.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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