July 15, 2014
Yes, This One is For You

The wind pierced violently

beyond our window

And I wondered how easily it was

for you to walk away

when I couldn’t






Not a pause nor a break

not even a deep swallow of


or sword

inside your



not a thing

it was as if

you were just




for my cue




11:54am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZCS0Ew1LZ05eB
Filed under: text write july15 
July 12, 2014
30 Seconds To Hours

Her soul was terrifyingly wretched, her pasts clumsily spill into futures; she did not put names into faces well, she was not coy, she did not spend time on things she unapologetically lacked.

She was a troubled little thing that redundantly fell in love, and as much of this world’s falling go, she did so clumsily.


he did not mind,

and so,

it did not matter.

10:32am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZCS0Ew1LGqNjE
Filed under: text write 
July 12, 2014
Just Call Me

I’m not sure what to make out of this blog post but I do know that I need to fill myself up with things other than food, unhealthy food, I should state, and my “filling up” usually means consumption of books (which explains why I’m broke from hoarding this week) or, sadly for you, writing spontaneously about things I have not put much thought to (redundancy check?).


            It’s quite a difficult battle really how I feel overfilled and emptied out all at the same time by certain decisions I took whilst prancing back to my path of self-(re)discovery (redundancy check part two), and awareness of the world I have built around me. Tough industry, I suppose, that prods everyone in its frontline to certain phases in their lives they once thought-would/could/wish did not exist. Nonetheless, I am not making any sense.

            The good news is my heavy heart is settling load elsewhere as I type these virtual blank ink on this virtual 5-minutes-ago-was-blank paper. The bad news is you’ve probably read this far and still haven’t picked up on anything and I’ve just wasted your time (and am continually wasting your time to this word, and the next others…) over something that should not even be put on a blog (*if this even should be considered a blog; maybe a public, self-detrimental, intangible form of compartment that makes scattered emotions and ideas look organized - would be a better account), but I am putting it on a *blog because I (1) can and because (2) I have worn my heart on my sleeve for far too long and (3) have gone through too much trouble because of it to start caring now.

            With that, I’d like to end wasting your time by telling you something you might (should) already know yourself - (and no, it isn’t that I use too much of this () even though I do but that shouldn’t be an issue because writing is my art and art has no rules (except for really expensive and subjectively beautiful paintings by geniuses – the rule of thumb in that “art” area I suppose is to resist all urges of stealing it/the idea of it) and this is going further than I had (not) planned) - that maybe the answer to the emptiness is emptiness itself.

            Maybe we are designed to have a hole, a gap, an in-between. Maybe we can fill it, over flow it, maybe it’s designed to sit empty for the rest of our lives, and that’s okay too. Maybe you can buy yourself happiness, maybe you cannot. Maybe your money will fill you up with so many things to be bought and sold, that you will eventually be happy and not sleep in same or different beds, and not feel the emptiness you felt when you had a hundred then, and now a million - maybe not. Maybe love can break your shackles and gather your bearings that have long been thrown out and strewn, and take you to new heights you once believed was imposible and finally make you into the wo/man you always dreamed of becoming – maybe not.

            Maybe all there is in life is to keep trying, until you wake up in one of these maybe-mornings and just, know.

8:34am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZCS0Ew1LGSmYx
Filed under: text write july12 
July 12, 2014
"Look, let’s give it up. Let’s just lay around and make love and take walks and talk a little. Let’s drive down and look at the ocean. It’s only 45 minutes. Let’s play games in the arcades. Let’s go to the races, the Art Museum, the boxing matches. Let’s have friends. Let’s laugh. This kind of life like everybody else’s kind of life: it’s killing us."

— Charles Bukowski (via liquidlightandrunningtrees)

(via sadyoungliterarygirls)

July 9, 2014
I Who Lost Sight of the Shore

She was a troubled little thing that hung around in corners of odd places, staring like a mad man at passersby, putting stories into faces, and killing time with a kind of keenness I never quite understood. Young and dipped in folly, I fell in love with melancholy – she’d quote, not sure who that fucker was though, she’d add, what an irony.

It was always her, really. Not quite the kind of beautiful I grew up thinking would tie me down like a deeply planted oak in its hundredths, but beautiful nonetheless, in ways no words in me can muster up.

She was my ocean, the only thing I loved and feared so terribly deep; and I swam in her gravities and never again longed for the shore. My days started and rested in the endlessness that is her regal luster – and every time I thought of her, I hunger even more.

She was.

Then, she was not.

1:25pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZCS0Ew1K-wFcS
Filed under: text write july10 
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