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I never liked my knees much
and how they would so easily bruise.
Or how my weeping willow hair
would tangle around every wisp of wind.
And I always disliked my hands and
the way they could never hold onto you.
But the sun kissed me pink
and I’m running dry of syllables
to tell you what my lips left alone.
That I never wanted to give you
something so broken.
want your hands,neck tattooed? ....i recommend reading this (read below then click the link)
This is a really interesting read, about deciding if you want to have your neck, hands or face tattooed and the consequences it comes with. despite i agree with whats been said on there, i guess it is up to you at the end of the day with what you would like to do with yourself. however you must think whats more important. this is my opinion and always knew this but its nice to see someone else perceptive with this sort of topic. click on the link and see what you think.
“One of the things that makes humans different from animals is that we are given the sense and ability of judgment to make sound decisions. We have instincts and desires just as animals do, but we have the ability to use sense, knowledge, and wisdom to discipline ourselves, while animals, for the most part, don't. Sadly, however, we are a creation that is ungrateful and ignorant. We have been given so much, yet we don't use any of it, and resort back to animalistic ways. Control yourself when facing your desires, be wise and disciplined in how you approach things, and be grateful and thankful to God for giving you so much. Live to the fullest, but maintain wisdom, intelligence, and discipline.”—Nadir Keval
Bravery isn’t always about a knight in shining armor rescuing his beloved princess from a castle. It isn’t always about facing your fear of heights, or ghosts, or being alone in the dark. Sometimes bravery is being able to wake up in the morning, or go to sleep at night without wishing you were dead. Sometimes, bravery is fighting off the demons, that sleep inside your head.
I'm Not a Character in The Books
I am not a character in the books. I am an apparition of reality. I am a specter of the lost world and the shade of mankind’s history. I was not retold countless of times, and I have never been remarkable to the world. I am not a character in the books, but a cold boy in this crazy world.
I am not a character in the books. I am not well written. I am not composed of phrases and words that could steal your soul, or make you linger in an infinite void of book lust. I don’t have the scent of the old books that can make you fall in love over and over again.
I am not a character in the books and I cannot bring you to different places, or introduce you to different characters of all shades and hues. I cannot conform to how the ink spilled me, or how the pages turn day by day. I am not flawless, and I am always torn from letters to letters.
I am not a character in the books because I am a young man who wants to be a character of your book. I am homeless, a nomad that roams around your paradigm of books and authors and characters and plots. I don’t belong anywhere, so maybe, even for just once, you can shelter me in your personal pages of good reads, of your favorite book. And maybe, even for just a while, you can read through my pages, and learn to love me, too, like how I love you.
My unloving heart turned North
when you gave me your apologetic palms
for the first time
I’ve been undoing
I’ve been untying
strings of time I left tangled and forgotten into our hair
you took apart my love like a drunk after whiskey
and swallowed it down to the final yellow teardrop,
as if you could kiss away my weak spots
now you’re just an empty bar stool
and I’m spilling out blood,
hoping you’ll see my terrible soul and
come December, find me frozen in deep red.