the truth:
sometimes i’m not okay. today’s that day for me. and that's okay. i’m exhausted. there’s nothing wrong with that. i’m tired of giving away my heart constantly and receiving things in return that are conditional. i’m tired of being a victim. i’m tired of never being loved the same in return. everyday is a process for me. i’m trying to be more understanding. i’m trying to be more open to the reality that not everyone is going to love me back. and that’s okay. it’s nothing personal. some people just don’t know any better. some people just don’t even know what it means to love with no boundaries. with no limitations. with no expectations. with no requirements. everyday i wonder.. do i require too much? do i expect too much? everyday i’m still learning what it means to “love”.
—  Reyna Biddy
We won’t always be happy.
Sometimes the darkness will feel too thick for your incandescent smile to brighten, and sometimes words like the ones I’m writing now will hardly bounce off your surface, let alone make it into your heart and mind for moments when only silence makes sense. 
Even so, we’ll always have each other, and honestly, I think that’ll be more than enough.
—  And someday, I hope you agree. // Maxwell Diawuoh, Once A Day (343/366)
the pain from an old wound

the sharp scent of memory

reaches down in giant sweeping boughs 

and I want to bury my face in the needles

happy and bleeding

because remembering hurts

but the past is evergreen

I'd Get Back To You But I'm Lost In Space

Floating like you’d think things float
Staring at stars from the distance
With nothing else to do
Staring so long the tiny twinkling dots start to shake and seem to disappear
Thousands of miles away from everyone I’ve ever known
Inside some space suit
Feeling claustrophobic in the most wide open space possible

I hear bells ringing
Everything’s dark
I don’t know what to think about anything anymore
I sing stupid songs
Suddenly weep
Laugh about something that happened once long ago
Suddenly weep

I’m in an ocean of air
In an ocean of tears
In an ocean full of metaphorical doom
I say to myself
‘Who cares,’
I whisper coldly
I think about faces I wish I could see
Moment I wish I could relive
I think about you
Far away
Stuck in a bat cave in the mountains or something
I think of my family
I think of my dead dog
I say to myself
'Who cares,’
I whisper coldly

I remember all those times people told me to write happy poetry
All those times people told me my writing was maybe a little to dark
I wish I could go back and write you a cheesy whisper in time

anonymous asked:

Didn't you hear? You cannot joke about wanting Erwin back/Erwin not being dead anymore... you have to get over it already. You are clogging the general tags!!1!

Mea culpa.  Let us atone for our sins by saying one Awful Father and five Hail Krugers and never mentioning The Commander Who Shall Not Be Named ever again, in the tags or out of them.


She asked me, “So how is it that you dwell so well in this madness?”, while silently rolling her intoxicated eyes around the unstable maneuver of the wine glass she held within her impatient fingers.
“Madness? What is it that you imply?”

I used to look towards her and wonder how she withheld herself with such composure. She always, always got past things saying, “Big deal, I’ll get through”. And surprisingly she always did. I probably started talking to her because of my strange fascination towards her indifferent demeanor, for it was always so annoyingly enticing. Partly my selfish instincts craved to know how life did let her get through.
So it began, days passed by, we talked, rather she did and I listened, for she always had something to say. Not about her woes and her foes, but about everything around her. She’d talk about the leaves, the people, homo sapiens, as she called them, for she was always so afraid to call them something that makes her feel closer to her inherent being, the parallel universes, the stars, oh my, she loved them like no other. She’d write about a busy street and make it sound so beautiful, she’d sketch a woman crying and the pain would seem so insignificant and it was a delight to be with her, she wasn’t like anything I’d known before.
Noone really knows anyone, I hardly know myself I believe, but she, oh my, she was all so varied. Because everytime she showed some emotion, the next moment she’d go all “Naah imma too cool for it”. It was frustrating at times, for she did cry, yes she did, for something stupid yes, but pain, she never talked about it. She’d laugh around, joke a little and be the joke, she was just a kid, yes she was, but her warm cold hearted radiance, that’s what noone seemed to see.
A weird weird creature, probably an alien invasion?
Moreover she did not believe in toxic environments, toxic in terms of the materials and the humans. She’d always stay away saying “Temporary pleasures are only temporary”. And my my, I loved her resolve, and envied her being.

But today, today was something vividly different. She used to love collecting wine bottles, she found them annoyingly attractive, she was weird at times, no denial, but today she started loving the emptiness of wine bottles, if she was the one finishing it and she loved the buzz. Of not having complete control over her feelings and spinning round the world in her tiny little head.
And that’s when she interrogated me about dwelling in this madness. And I lost all the words of my ingenuity.
“What are you talking about? Your words tend to entangle me into thoughts I am not comfortable with.”, she looked confused as she tried to compose herself for channelling her energy towards my statements.
“Well it’s everything. Nothing is black or white. Everything seems to distress me and I don’t know why, why is my head so heavy, my heart so naive, and why do people depend on me when ironically I’m searching for some space to breathe. Nothing is simple, I am neither, but why doesn’t anyone try to decipher me like every other problem in the world, for I am a problem indeed. I want to fix myself, feel adequate in a world which will always be adequate with or without me. Tell me, tell me why I want to scream.”
“I’m not wise enough to know if, what I’m about to say is delusional or not but I do believe that you should try stopping.”
“Stopping? where and when and how?”
“I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but I do know where, you should stop at who you are, and not who you want to be.”

bambi-bowie  asked:


*hugs back* Thank you! Thank you so very very much Eden! 

Have a cute kitty Bowie! 

Thanx for stopping by! ^_^

Meditating upon arriving at an oil slick

It is to myself as it is to the faces I can no longer wake to

caked in powdery salt, in the valley of the open blinds, gouache-like with a shallow relief.

Home. Outside my hut the algae bloom red - every year

and the sky spreads out, roars metallically overhead

mutely c/o/m/b/i/n/g the rhyme of the sphere, zen garden

putting it in place between shears.

Moving from her shoulder blades, to the small of her back. The plains.

Spearmint pushing its roots into the soil, from experience, from nothing, snatching sunken birds from the earth water

- yes, the gardener’s fingertips find a pulse, even in the red clay

and what he lost in the ground was papyrus; not the quill.


you chew up my mind
and I let it happen
you’re on the other side
and I’m still staring at a fox tail flower

you got that dumb face
and that cool hair
and smile that could take down a grizzly bear
and you’re not mine
you’re your favourite city’s
well alright then, alright

I’m going home
I’m going home
I’ll see you when you’re home