A Grand Identity

We are more
Than who we love
And love is more
Than mere romance

Not vital to our grand identity
Not a measure
Of our worth

Feelings made of pearls and
Lips and roses
Eclipse those built from
Trust and friendship
And family

Passion for
Creation. Admiration
For thought
Even the underrated love of
Self

Existing as an interest
Is not my core
Sure as hell not my headline
Not my last thought of daylight
Or my first dream of the night time
Expanded to a focus point
A central fiber of our existence
Magnified to the life-giving sun
When it’s a mere twinkling star

We are thinkers
We are souls
We are creators of new worlds
I don’t want a hand to hold
I need those free
For great things

And if I fall each night
In solitude
I will know it doesn’t mean
A damn thing because
I
Am more

  • Me:I'm gonna write a story and it's gonna be great and it will flow easily and all my character's will dash fully formed onto the page and it will come out perfectly on the first try so I'll never ever have to edit ever and I'll for once be happy with something I wrote and it'll be flawless
  • Me:*writes*
  • Me:*writes*
  • Me:*writes*
  • Me some days later with bags under my eyes and my keyboard keys branded into my face from repeatedly falling asleep on it:I HAD A DREAM MY LIFE WOULD BE SO DIFFERENT FROM THIS HELL I'M LIVING
She wore long legs, cherry-red lipstick, and swayed her body so beautifully when she walked. She had oceans for eyes, fruits for lips, and her private parts tasted like Heaven. She was broken into millions of pieces and I think I loved every million of those pieces with every inch of me. This girl had a chip on her shoulder wide as mountains like the world owed her everything. She brought burning sadness to your doorstep, but it was the kind of sadness that you couldn’t love without, it was the kind of sadness that made you feel so fucking good. She was the girl who hated the 14th of February, who burned plastic hearts in ovens and beheaded roses in her dark bedroom. I never meant to love someone who wrote love songs on their wrist in blood, or who found happiness in empty pill bottles, or who made bracelets and necklaces out of the heart they’ve broken. She was torn into millions of pieces and I loved every million of those pieces.
—  Baldwin (CYBERP0ET)
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