Today, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, next decade, next century… Until the world stops spinning and it ends for good, there will always be a place in this world for hatred, anger, violence, racism, unfairness, murder, slander… but I believe there is an EVEN bigger place in this world for love, joy, warm embraces, equality, justice and LIFE.
Which ever side of the spectrum you choose to spend your time here investing in, the important thing to remember is that you can not get one with the other.
—  Savannah Black

anonymous asked:

To the person who doesn't like Zoe much: yeah, I feel ya. I used to enjoy her videos, but after the whole book thing, I've not been into her. I know a lot of people defend her on it, but as an aspiring writer, it upsets me.

Honestly, although I do see why people were frustrated by the book thing, I also think people need to give her a break. She’s a good YouTuber, and a lovely person, despite a that not-so-great career move.

Every girl has that one guy she would go back to in a heartbeat, heartbreak after heartbreak, no matter what. Every girl has that one guy she can never let go, no matter how hard she tries. And every girl has that one guy who will always have a part of her heart she can never get back.
—  BBJ

And after we ended things between us, I still hope that someday we will meet again— that I will once again have the chance to look into your unbelievable blue eyes. It’s a different kind of hope— a dangerous one. How can I be this optimistic?

Perhaps I just love you this much.

—  Luna (shotsandwords)

Sometimes I think I’m better off alone.

     Then I think of all the nights I crave someone to hold.

—  Savannah Black
Speak your mind. Speak all your thoughts and word all your emotions. Scream out your feelings like no one is listening. Cry out your every thought as though you won’t be judged upon them. Scream in colour. Scream in black and white. String together every existing word in your vocabulary. Use big words. Use small words. Your words are power. Your power is your speech. Tell stories, and don’t hide the embarassing details - those are the best parts. Talk to people. Talk to things. Talk to strangers. Talk to friends. Don’t hesitate, your words are your own, they are a part of you. Speak as you like. Scream if you want to, or talk in a timid tone. Shout random words. Burst it all out. Words are a powerful form of expression - use it. Make people listen if they aren’t, make them take you seriously if they aren’t. Express yourself, most humans understand words these days.

Speak by Dia Tiwari

part of the word collection

I’m too prideful to let anyone condescend me, but I lack any feeling of self worth. I feel each second that passes like an opportunity I’ve wasted to do something meaningful, but life seems to drag on at an agonizing pace; taking the time to parade my failures through my mind endlessly. I passionately love but am too cowardly to risk more scars in its name. So I remain in a constant mood of cynical apathy. I smile, full of childlike cheer and wonder, and it covers my face like a bright tapestry covering a wall in ruins. I am so hollow and cold, yet full of deep and somber thoughts. I am me and I will never escape that.
Writing (Magical) Items: Weapons, Attire, Potions,Tools, Steeds
Katniss uses a bow.

Vash uses a gun (a long colt, since we’re going to talk about getting specific)

Keep reading


Above is a picture of my desk and my favorite frame respectively.

To not trouble any of you with my poor directing skills, I will just link all the YouTube videos that have helped me organizing and decorating my room and closet and desk area. :)




(All photos are mine. This blog post is not affiliated with YouTube or any of the YouTubers linked, I just wanted to show how I organized, arranged, and decorated my room.)

Maybe the reason I’ve never gotten anything I’ve wanted is because I told myself every time that I wasn’t good enough and that I didn’t deserve it.

Well, those days are behind me as of now.

—  Savannah Black
Confessions of a Reader Wanting to Write

The more I read, the more I discover how limited my vocabulary is for an aspiring writer. Not only that, my ability to describe things so that pink is not only pink, but luncheon-meat pink, needs improvement—the observe-everything-like-Sherlock-Holmes kind of improvement.  Then there’s the obvious: figuring out my voice or tone. Am I leaning toward being satirical like Vonnegut (whom I have yet to read) or toward being funny and self-deprecating like my favorite author David Sedaris? I can be either or both, I just don’t know yet which self is brave enough for acceptance or rejection. Maybe I have a third self, undiscovered and more hopeful. If only a sorting hat can tell.

I need to read more to solve the problems of reading enough. Luckily, my thirtysomething brain is not complaining. I love to read. I am born to read. My myopic eyes are constantly assaulted by 12-point characters and are begging for frequent rests. And so I write this to distribute the burden of my difficult but not impossible dream to another body part that needs equal flexing: my right hand. 

If I could write with my left hand, I would probably force it into labor too, except that it might exact revenge by producing words that only it can read. It is not born a left hand if it can’t be subversive.  Until I learn how to master it, my left hand will remain pen-free for the time being. Besides, it is not completely useless. It is still responsible in holding the left pages of a book and turning the page as I dig deep into the story. Good or bad writing regardless, it enables me to read on.

Then there’s my backside. It needs a variety of cushions and backrests to give it the illusion of comfort during long hours of sitting, staring into the blank page, writing, staring into space or window, shifting stare into the blank page, and writing. If I’m aiming to write 2,000 words a day, it will be sitting like Rodin for two to three hours. If I brave writing 50,000 words (a novel) to get a badge (NaNoWriMo), it will be sitting for one month until it grows into the backside of the 30-foot seated figure of Abraham Lincoln in the Lincoln Memorial. Forget my backside, my left hand will be sweating, shaking, and bleeding half of the words of the novel after my right hand obliges.

I am staring again into space, particularly into my pocket dictionary. The clock stroke six.  Should I stop writing? Because If I stop, then I will have to continue reading under an artificial light. My myopic eyes will love that and so will my eye doctor, if I ever dare to admit the abuses in exchange for an updated contact lens prescription.  Speaking of which, are there lenses that prevent the eye from rolling and voluntarily closing when the paragraphs become longer, or when the story or the way it is written loses its appeal? Because if there are, then maybe, just maybe, it will stop me from abandoning some books just because I decide that I’ve read enough.  But then again, who am I kidding? I don’t imagine I’ll be able to write well if I don’t read, read, and read. And it’s not just because Stephen King said it. I know that the only reason why I’m able to write is because I read.  Not just fiction, but essays and news and features and children’s stories and poems, especially poems.

It is almost 9pm. Should I stop writing? Probably not, but I should get back to reading. Then tomorrow I can write more.

Your eyes are windows
I see daisies within them
It still makes me sigh
—  My first haiku, kind of blah but let me know what you think how you think I can improve ect….

They say don’t fall too fast,

  But have you
         ever really seen
              anything fall slowly?

—  Savannah Black
The first time I fell in love

I fell in love
With the language
encrypted in your fingertips

So I spent coffee stained nights
Trying to decipher every syllable
Trapped in the creases of your skin

The white lines of my paper
The closest thing I saw to stars

I wrapped myself in your voice
The award-winning one
That left your tongue coated in gold

Instead of your arms
Constructed of bones
That never could hold the weight Of a promise

I found comfort
holding my hand in yours
Because finally
the lines in our palms
Could converse

I can remember more clearly
The words that dripped
from your lips
Like liquid flames branding my heart

Than the shade of your eyes
Because I was blinded
By the sound of the ocean
Or rain
Or rustling leaves

(Were they blue? Grey? Green?)

I fell in love with words
Like flowers blooming from your lips

But now I wonder

If that was the only thing I loved

And if I ever loved you at all