It seems to be the same again and again
I make a whole future for ourselves bathed in honey light
I set myself up for quite the fall as soon as I fall in love
I have the feeling that you shouldn’t be able to do this to me
whoever “you” are, but it seems like every single time
I’m on the floor writhing and my hair gets soaked
my nose runs, my throat clogs up
and I’m choking up on sobs and smashed would-be memories
I feel wrapped in cellophane
under my eyes seize up
my face tingles
my ears feel washed but dulled
I burn up and my heart…
oh my god my chest
let’s not
like we won’t be the way I wanted
because oh no no no goodness no
I shake and I shake, wringing my hands
bite my fingers and knuckles to see the marks I can make
revel in the throbs and pain.
i look in the mirror to see me
contorted into this blotchy, red-eyed wrinkled fool
kicking my legs like a child in a tantrum
I look like an idiot
so…what to do?
write
make something
I even know these things will come
just why is it never me?
why does it always be someone else who is happy
can know you like no other
will bore you or not
and I will be there with a pathetic box of chocolates
or left at the altar of an unplanned wedding
dolled up, nearly wetting myself with excitement and possibility
and away it bubbles and smokes like a photograph thrust into a fire for dramatic purposes
I don’t want to do anything but wrap myself up in a heavy carpet and bleed myself dry
eat myself whole
glow with such force that I dissolve
explode
the pressure from my wracking sobs should do that but
mercilessly
I stay intact to continue this cycle again and again
and I know it
I KNOW THAT WE COULD BE SO MUCH
I SEEEEEE ITTT
ht 2gjokngklns’glmdglms
ds
but it’s not to be
so save your tears for something that happens.
People think a lot of them are made up but to me they are the most dangerous way of expression. Stories are those that start from the heart. It is there they turn to corrupt the reader with new ideas and new ways of life.
I remember the time you used to tell me stories. Not fairytales though. You weren’t like other daddies. You told me stories of the dinosaurs, those of great men, of the solar system and your childhood. I still can remember each one of them.
Once upon a time, there lived a world, full of creatures that roamed only to find yellow stones and shiny glass. They told stories of the past were greater beings could turn things into more wonderful items.. and they all believed the lies.
there are a lot of stories in this world. funny ones, sad ones, interesting ones…
I’m glad we shared one. Sharing stories is wonderful, no matter of what kind . it gives experience and from that we learn
ours was not a h
Stories are part of our life. They’re real. They’re imagined. But together, they create who we are. How we define ourselves. And how others define us. Stories cover the range of emotion. They invigorate all the senses. They teach. Inspire.
Sometimes I like to tell stories to my nephew to make him go to sleep when he wants me too. Stories is full of any genre that any makes up in the story and stories can sometimes be real!
Everyone has a story. But how your story ends…that’s up to you. There are so many things that tie in to your “story” but what do you want to happen… I want to graduate college. I want to fall in love with someone… and be loved back. I want to lay in a medow with the Summer flowers and bring my ink pen to the sky, writing the words of my life onto the fluffy clouds. I want to determine my story…my story. When I die, and when you turn the last page, I want you to remember my story. I want my story to glow with the moonlight. I want to live on forever, never having a real “end” to my story…
Then! Then! Then we were swimming,
trying to do right by the waves, spitting
salty water back into the sea. The
stories your eyes told me, your saltwater
eyes, sounded exactly like the seagulls overhead.
Stories are the elixir of life. There is nothing like a good story to warm the bones and wake up the heart. After all aren’t we all just stories intersecting into each others own little worlds trying not to muddle or mess up the ink that makes up our lives.
Uh, hi?
It seems to be the same again and again
I make a whole future for ourselves bathed in honey light
I set myself up for quite the fall as soon as I fall in love
I have the feeling that you shouldn’t be able to do this to me
whoever “you” are, but it seems like every single time
I’m on the floor writhing and my hair gets soaked
my nose runs, my throat clogs up
and I’m choking up on sobs and smashed would-be memories
I feel wrapped in cellophane
under my eyes seize up
my face tingles
my ears feel washed but dulled
I burn up and my heart…
oh my god my chest
let’s not
like we won’t be the way I wanted
because oh no no no goodness no
I shake and I shake, wringing my hands
bite my fingers and knuckles to see the marks I can make
revel in the throbs and pain.
i look in the mirror to see me
contorted into this blotchy, red-eyed wrinkled fool
kicking my legs like a child in a tantrum
I look like an idiot
so…what to do?
write
make something
I even know these things will come
just why is it never me?
why does it always be someone else who is happy
can know you like no other
will bore you or not
and I will be there with a pathetic box of chocolates
or left at the altar of an unplanned wedding
dolled up, nearly wetting myself with excitement and possibility
and away it bubbles and smokes like a photograph thrust into a fire for dramatic purposes
I don’t want to do anything but wrap myself up in a heavy carpet and bleed myself dry
eat myself whole
glow with such force that I dissolve
explode
the pressure from my wracking sobs should do that but
mercilessly
I stay intact to continue this cycle again and again
and I know it
I KNOW THAT WE COULD BE SO MUCH
I SEEEEEE ITTT
ht 2gjokngklns’glmdglms
ds
but it’s not to be
so save your tears for something that happens.
People think a lot of them are made up but to me they are the most dangerous way of expression. Stories are those that start from the heart. It is there they turn to corrupt the reader with new ideas and new ways of life.
I remember the time you used to tell me stories. Not fairytales though. You weren’t like other daddies. You told me stories of the dinosaurs, those of great men, of the solar system and your childhood. I still can remember each one of them.
Once upon a time, there lived a world, full of creatures that roamed only to find yellow stones and shiny glass. They told stories of the past were greater beings could turn things into more wonderful items.. and they all believed the lies.
there are a lot of stories in this world. funny ones, sad ones, interesting ones…
I’m glad we shared one. Sharing stories is wonderful, no matter of what kind . it gives experience and from that we learn
ours was not a h
Stories are part of our life. They’re real. They’re imagined. But together, they create who we are. How we define ourselves. And how others define us. Stories cover the range of emotion. They invigorate all the senses. They teach. Inspire.
Sometimes I like to tell stories to my nephew to make him go to sleep when he wants me too. Stories is full of any genre that any makes up in the story and stories can sometimes be real!
Tears flow freely down my face as I grip the pencil tightly in my hand.
I’m so, so sorry I couldn’t give you the happy ending we wanted. I just couldn’t do it. And I know you couldn’t do it either.
Maybe this story just doesn’t have a happy ending, or maybe your happy ending was when you left.
Everyone has a story. But how your story ends…that’s up to you. There are so many things that tie in to your “story” but what do you want to happen… I want to graduate college. I want to fall in love with someone… and be loved back. I want to lay in a medow with the Summer flowers and bring my ink pen to the sky, writing the words of my life onto the fluffy clouds. I want to determine my story…my story. When I die, and when you turn the last page, I want you to remember my story. I want my story to glow with the moonlight. I want to live on forever, never having a real “end” to my story…
no one care about stories. only money
Every story has its own spice. Every person has its own story. Every one of them is interesting. Don’t have much time to write. Sorry. See you later!
Then! Then! Then we were swimming,
trying to do right by the waves, spitting
salty water back into the sea. The
stories your eyes told me, your saltwater
eyes, sounded exactly like the seagulls overhead.
Stories are the elixir of life. There is nothing like a good story to warm the bones and wake up the heart. After all aren’t we all just stories intersecting into each others own little worlds trying not to muddle or mess up the ink that makes up our lives.