Here’s to the girls who like to stay at home eating Oreos all day while wearing nothing but comfy panties and giant old high school sweaters.
The girls who never leaves the house without perfect makeup, those shorts that make her booty pop, and heels so high that the whole world looks up to her.
The girls who always carries around their books even though there’s no time to read at a grocery store. Her eyes have explored a thousand universes.
The girls with sadness in their souls and love in their hearts, and the only way they feel at peace is when they’re higher than the galaxies they light up under. Maybe seeing the world through red, puffy eyes and a cloud of smoke is clearer.
The girls who love to party too hard and dance too wild. For the girls that all the boys love because of her charisma and wit, but also because she can make a killer cake despite the hangover.
The girls who love to listen to chaos of the world around them. The perfect listeners. The girls with tender hearts and big innocent eyes. The girls who loves too much and sees the good in all the evil.
The girls who works hard and sweats and grinds through their day to reach their goal. And at the end of the day, all she wants is a margarita.
The girls who’s ready to settle down with their man for the rest of their life. And the girls who like to kiss and tell, many times.
Here’s to the girls because we all deserve a round of applause, a little bit of chocolate, and a crown.
You love and you love and you give everything you have and you wonder why you are so empty. people are not cups and you are not an endless well, stop trying to fill him up its never going to work.
at the end of the day you go to bed and you lay there and you can’t stop thinking of how much you miss him. you think that maybe if you would’ve given a little more of your love, or a little less, if you would’ve been quieter he would’ve stayed.
i know you don’t want to believe it but it doesn’t matter what you would’ve done he didn’t care. so many before you have tried to empty themselves for him, they’ve tried to carve out a version of themselves they thought he would like but none of that matters because he’ll never be satisfied, he’ll always be ready for the next one.
im sorry you feel like you need his love to complete you.
im sorry you can’t see how much more you are without him.
I hope you can move on and see how much more beautiful the stars can be without him– Lily Rain
“He’s not coming home.” You tried to keep your voice from breaking, but with hands shaking, you failed. Everything you said was glass and nothing came out of your mouth without shattering. “He doesn’t even know where home is.”
i.a.s. // excerpts from a book I’ll never write #5
“you’re the type of girl who John green writes about; a girl who exudes individuality and has a mesmerizing outlook on life, which gives off the impression we will see nothing like you ever again. But at the same time, you’re normal and simplistic so much so that aspects of you can be found within everyone.”
I won’t pretend to know you, but I’ve read every inch of you
“A writer’s biggest weakness? Nostalgia probably. We’re scene creators, so when we hear that song, or see that old TV show…it’s not just a memory. We can put ourselves back in that scene. And knowing we’ll never go there again? It hurts like hell.”
30 day writing challenge 006 : gossamer mark tuan // 679 words // implied sexual themes a/n : i got this poem book today and got so emotional/inspired. special thanks to ho-zii for suggesting mark!!!!!!! also i’m tagging squishyfeelsprincess because i know how much she likes mark
It’s your wedding day, and you’re well-past telling yourself
to be jubilant. There’s no way anymore, for your just a mask now, a pretty
porcelain statue with stone cheeks and a smile etched too deeply to be real.
Hair framing your sculpted expression, you watch your
reflection, perhaps considering yourself lovely for the first-no, third
time in your life.
Crossing your ankles, the first time, having festered itself
into the permanent part of your memory, flitters through your mind. You were
five years-young, sheltered and caged in a house not much bigger than your
dreams. He must’ve been around your age, perhaps a year or two older, pushing
your flimsy little shoulders into the concrete fence like he was the man his
father wanted him to be, mouth sour on yours. You agreed to let him do it
because you, idealistically enamored, hoped to fall in the same fashion as your
parents did. ‘Kissing is for people who love each other’, and oh, did
you crave that affection in the simplest of forms.
He told you he liked your dress afterwards.
The second turned out to be more in your favor. White light
and star bright, you stood in the parking lot of some club, phone in hand as
you punched in your brother’s number. That was when he showed up.
You should’ve picked it up from his quick steps, or even his
smile, which didn’t wrinkle the corners of his eyes like it was supposed to.
A nod in your direction was all he offered you, along with a
slip of paper with ten digits scrawled across it, a piece of paper that was
wrinkled because, you later on figured out, he had it ready, but not just for
you. You tried to ignore the beads of sweat trickling down to the base of your
neck when he grabbed your hand, palm moist and calloused when he uses it to rub
you, rub you in ways that are all wrong, ways you force yourself to accept as right.
You deleted his number, but pitifully, your fingertips can’t
forget the familiar combination.
Reality kicks in, and you’re pulled from your daydreams as
Mark tiptoes into the room, hands at his sides. Gulping, trying to seem as
unphased as possible, you keep the tilt of your chin casual.
“I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I just..” Lifting
his eyes to meet yours, he parts his lips and then closes them in an effort to
look slightly happy.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Marrying Mark Tuan was never a matter of choice, to neither
you nor him. It was written in blotted ink, always there, bleeding through the
pages of your story, set-in-stone in even the most irrelevant situations of
“Seeing me in my wedding dress is bad luck, you know.”
Mark turns pink at your teasing, chuckling embarrassedly as
wrings his fingers and twiddles his thumbs, peering at you from the clumps of
hair falling over his eyes, convincing you that he has something to say. When
nothing but silence follows your remark, Mark starts to head for the exit,
shoes squeaking against the wooden floor. Figuring this encounter is over, you
stand to shut the door behind him.
Just as he’s about to leave, though, he stops.
“I’m going to make you happy,___.” He says, hand boldly
moving to find your hip, and you stiffen because he knows about your
bruise there, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s aware of how
you got it too.
He leans in, Mark does, and kisses you quickly, gently, unlike
the ones you’re used to, the ones that steal your breath away and lock it up
for ‘safekeeping’. This kiss, it’s free, it’s giving, and when he pulls away,
you’re shocked at yourself for not wanting him to stop.
Warmth encoats you like a blanket, covering you, shielding
you for being the delicate soul you are.
“I believe you.” You say to him. And you do. You really do.
The Stark County Board of Developmental Disabilities is using my book of poems, Fjords vol. 1, to teach literacy to some of their adult clients. They’ve been interpreting some of the poems in their art classes. As a poet, too rarely do you get to see the evidence of the work the poems are doing without you there, after you’ve written them, so this news makes me incredibly happy and proud.
I too liked very much a poem you just reblogged, that one about Dionysus? Do you know where it comes from? Dionysus goodnight tales is a book? What exactly is the poem about? I'm sorry for all those questions, but it amazed me and I know very little about poetry or mythology... Hope I didn't bother you...
Hey dear anon,
don’t fear, my followers never bother me and I’m always happy to help a fellow poem lover out :D
Unfortunately, the poem you’re referring to is not part of a book, but it is called bacchanalian scent // dionysus’ goodnight tales and you can find the original post here. The writer of this poem is metvmorqhoses; I recommend all of her works because she knows how to string words together in a magnificent yet haunting way.
I think the author can answer your question what the poem is about better than I ever could, but if you’re interested in my personal opinion I’m glad to give it. For me the poem represents sensuality and hidden desire, a tad of madness that plays with the readers mind. She provides a picture of obsession that is hauntingly pure.