man i really like doing poems

It’s like ten thousand poems when all you care for is strife
It’s fucking the man of your dreams… and then fucking his beautiful wife

Huh

And isn’t it Byronic, don’t you think?
A little too Byronic? Yeah, I really do think.

IT”S LIKE FLEEING TO SPAIN ON YOUR WEDDING DAY
BEING A SHITTY DAD TO ADA LOVELACE
LIKE THE OTTOMAN FORT THAT YOU JUST COULDN”T TAKE
AND YOU WOULDA THOUGHT YOU’D BE BIGGER

|| theme song ||

{summary: in which you find out that peter parker adores spiderman just as much as you do.}

so there was some spiderman: homecoming event held in tokyo some time yesterday, and there was some new footage being shown [♥] @//tomhsource on twitter had a few screenshots saved on their twitter page (and also, just to clarify, their twitter page never explicitly stated that angourie rice was playing gwen stacy. they called it out as a RUMOR, and these shady sites were just looking for more clickbait material by saying that she was confirmed to be gwen)

but i’m not here to talk about the mess behind angourie rice’s character identity (even though I still firmly believe she’s playing betty brant, personally) what i’m most excited about is how peter is actually seen in the footage WRITING his own spiderman theme!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

and I just had to make an imagine out of it ;)

I will be using [[cosmicbooknews]] transcription since I have their whole typed out theme saved in my emails

tags [permanent + peter parker]: @ghostedwolf , @psychicwitchphilosopher , @pharaohkiller , @moonlight53 , @wannabe-weasley , @mcusebstan , @tmrhollandkay , @pepcvina , @nekonerdxox , @lokigirl18 , @fangeekkk , @kylielo22 , @wavy-ley , @lghockey , @buckysendoftheline , @1022bridgetp , @potterjamesharry

warnings: none

**please don’t plagiarize/repost this story. reblogs are fine!!**

——

Keep reading

light

/līt/

noun

  1. you carry stars in your pockets like you have stretched the universe tight around your soul. when i fall, they spill out of your pockets as you try to help me up and i spend years in my head trying to make constellations until my eyes hurt. when i close them, you are still there.
  2. your touch is as soft as the feathers on my back; i sit on the bathroom counter and daydream even though it’s night. you tape the gaps in my wings, and i try to ignore the way your fingers burn. 
  3. you kiss me like you have forever and a day and i only have a few hours. i am a dripping candle and you the sun, so bright i can hardly bear to look at you, but you kiss me again and i forget every warning my father told me.  
  4. there is no happily ever after; there is only you, with fire in your veins and hands dusted with the ashes of what is left of me.
Slam

Braun Strowman/OC: Braun gets dragged along to a local club on Slam Poetry night. And ends up falling in love with your words. SMUT AT SOME POINT IN THIS FUCKIN THING JUST BEAR WITH ME AIGHT IT’S HAPPENING.

Anyways. Idk what even happened in this fic. I started out with a clear idea and then….Shit just kinda happened and idk how it ended up how it did but it did and I couldn’t stop it so. IDK IT’S WEIRD BUT I LIKE IT WHATEVER.

Tagging my usual bbies: @lavitabella87 @omgmissmillie @screamersdontdance @everybodyfinnfreeze @shadow-of-wonder @laochbaineann @justtookawaii @sarrahcha @twiistedbliiss @hotspurmadridista @niazha16 @happelu970 @officialbroski10-blog @crowleysqueenofhell @lilmisscrisis @antigonemaia @imnoaingeal @littledeadrottinghood @imagineall-the-fandoms @fuckyeahbulletclub @hiitsmecharlie @macfizzle @bizclizbaybay @oraclegazes @culturalrebel @welshwitch5 @wrasslesmut @actualamyautopsy @blondekel77 @meaganottiz02 @karaboomhower @valeonmars @squirrel666 @livingthestrongstyle @damnbuvky @dmm-wts @abbie03d @roserae527 @superrezzy00

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Okay but after reading through your last answer all I can think about is a RiverClan cat going up to their old mentor and being like "Hey, Shellfur, I really like Mistthroat, and I want them to be my mate, but I don't really know what to do. You've been mates with Lightningnose for a while, how'd you do it?" "Okay so first you gotta come up with a super cool poem. Then you gotta yell it out to the whole clan" "wait what" "Yeah man. Also be sure to compliment their stripes. Cats love that shit"

I am fighting so hard not to make a “bitches love” reference. 

“I was fixated on capturing the image of this man very content with sleeping on the ocean floor. I was really obsessed with putting someone somewhere that they wouldn’t naturally inhabit, and having them sort of dwell. In that time in my life, that was incredibly appealing to me, it was just sort of about isolation. The years progressed and I was busy doing other things, and I realized that everything I’ve ever written in the last five years, it’s been the same thing. It’s like the same poem, again and again and again. It’s like what the fuck, it’s so redundant, and obviously this needs to get out so I can move on.”

I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak
And then suck my ex-girlfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure she never comes up in our conversations
I’m going to be honest, I’m not really a love poet
In fact, every time I try to write about love my hands cramp… just to show me how painful love can be
And sometimes my pencils break, just to prove to me that every now and then love takes a little more work than you planned
See I heard that love is blind so, I write all my poems in Braille
And my poems are never actually finished because true love is endless
I always believed that real love is kind of like a super model before she’s air brushed;
It’s pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended
See I’m going to be honest, I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love I swear that my first poem…
It would be about you

About how I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike: Scared
But reckless with no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you
You see, I’m not really a love poet
But if I was I’d write about how I see your face in every cloud and your reflection in every window
You see I’ve written like a million poems hoping that somehow maybe someway you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me
Because if you were here, right now
I would massage your back until your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to

Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name and you smile like the Pacific Ocean
I want to drink the sunlight in your skin
If I was a love poet
I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful
Even on days when everything around you is ugly
You see I’d write about your eyelashes and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink

If I was a love poet
I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture
Every time I hear the vibration in your voice so whenever I see your name on the caller ID my heart
It plays hopscotch inside of my chest
Yo it climbs onto my ribs like monkey bars and I feel like a child all over again
I know this sounds strange but every now and then I pray that God somehow turns you back in to one of my ribs…
Just so that I would never have to spend an entire day without you

I swear, I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love
My first poem it would be about you
And after all of that she was like, so how do you feel about me?
And I said, put it like this:
I want to be your ex boyfriend’s stunt man. I want to do everything that he never had the courage to do like… trust you

I swear that when our lips touch I can taste the next sixty years of my life
And some days I want to swallow stacks of your pictures just so you can be a part of me for a little bit longer
If I could I would sample your smile and then I would let my heart beat
Do the bass line, we would create the greatest love song of all time
Whenever, we stand next to each other, love I was the only one made for you and you can be at last my Etta James
I’ll be oh child when you’re in pain or you could be candy coated drops of rain
Even though it never rains in Southern California
And together, we could be music

And when my friends ask if you’re my girlfriend
I’ll say no
She is my musician
And me… I’m her favorite song

—  Rudy Francisco

anonymous asked:

can you do the royals' flirting styles? if you can't do all of them, i would really appreciate takumi and xander!

Everyone but the imoutos!

This is for like um, pre-relationship flirting!

Xander: If conducting war councils is difficult a task, then this is a herculean effort for the man. He goes out to procure the prettiest flowers, and tries his hand at a poem. He rips that up, and instead, puts his feelings into notes, and sneaks them into your hand when walking by. They’re simple things, but the secrecy of its nature makes it all the more exciting.

Takumi: He means well, but whenever things don’t go the way he wants…he gets a little irritated. He wants to hold your hand, or give you flowers, or some other romantic mushy bullshit (he does enjoy it all, even if he’s shy about it), but if something gets in the way he’ll throw his hands in the air and grumble a lot. In the end he’ll just say that he wants to spend more time with you, and hope that conveys the message.

Ryoma: He’s very blunt with it. He comments on your lovely aspects so well, that you wonder if he does this often. No, he admits, he’s just practiced it a lot, because of how ardently he admires you. You figure out a little more of the truth—every time he flirts, he runs off to take care of some task or another. In reality, it’s because he can no longer hide his blush, and wants to keep the cool persona around you whilst he can.

Keep reading

I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak
And then suck my ex-girlfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure she never comes up in our conversations.
I’m going to be honest, I’m not really a love poet
In fact, every time I try to write about love my hands cramp… just to show me how painful love can be.
And sometimes my pencils break, just to prove to me that every now and then love takes a little more work than you planned.
See I heard that love is blind so, I write all my poems in Braille.
And my poems are never actually finished because true love is endless.
I always believed that real love is kind of like a super model before she’s air brushed;
It’s pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended.
See I’m going to be honest, I’m not a love poet.
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love I swear that my first poem…
It would be about you

About how I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike: Scared.
But reckless with no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you.
You see, I’m not really a love poet
But if I was I’d write about how I see your face in every cloud and your reflection in every window.
You see I’ve written like a million poems hoping that somehow maybe someway you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me.
Because if you were here, right now
I would massage your back until your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to.

Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name and you smile like the Pacific Ocean.
I want to drink the sunlight in your skin.
If I was a love poet
I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful
Even on days when everything around you is ugly.
You see I’d write about your eyelashes and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink.

If I was a love poet
I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture.
Every time I hear the vibration in your voice so whenever I see your name on the caller ID my heart
It plays hopscotch inside of my chest
Yo it climbs onto my ribs like monkey bars and I feel like a child all over again
I know this sounds strange but every now and then I pray that God somehow turns you back in to one of my ribs…
Just so that I would never have to spend an entire day without you

I swear, I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love
My first poem it would be about you
And after all of that she was like, so how do you feel about me?
And I said, put it like this:
I want to be your ex girlfriend’s stunt man. I want to do everything that she never had the courage to do like… trust you.

I swear that when our lips touch I can taste the next sixty years of my life
And some days I want to swallow stacks of your pictures just so you can be a part of me for a little bit longer.
If I could I would sample your smile and then I would let my heart beat
Do the bass line, we would create the greatest love song of all time.
Whenever, we stand next to each other, love I was the only one made for you and you can be at last my Etta James
I’ll be oh child when you’re in pain or you could be candy coated drops of rain.
Even though it never rains in Southern California
And together, we could be music.

And when my friends ask if you’re my girlfriend
I’ll say no
She is my musician
And me… I’m her favorite song

9

Part 1 (if you missed it)

OHMYDEARGOD! THIS WAS A BEAST OF A PROJECT!! I say, my hands trembling as I slurp down a Gatorade bottle, stretching my legs that have atrophied after hours of disuse.

I nearly ripped out all my own hair doing this, so I hope people really like it! If you enjoyed this please like/reblog, so I don’t cry myself to sleep tonight.

Thanks to @taste-is-sweet and @buckmebxrnes for reading through my rehashed poem and giving me pointers.   

BONUS

Bot Boy

Bot boy’s teacher is so
strong, it worries him.
Bot boy’s never met
anyone as incredible
as him.

Bot boy’s synthetic heart
hurts so much.
Bot boy doesn’t know why.

Bot boy will do
anything
for his teacher.
Bot boy didn’t know
teacher was burdened
with such sadness.

Bot boy’s shirt is stained
with oil tears.
Bot boy will be
as strong as teacher.

Bot boy will stand by your side.
Please wait for me.

— 

my christmas wish is for someone to make saigenos edits w my poem

Poem/Rap for Shuploc

((I saw a post saying how we should do something nice for the tumblr user shuploc, so I decided to make a poem/rap. I won’t record myself saying it so sorry. Hope you all like it! Oh and btw, check out her art. If you like Markiplier, or just plain curious, then check her out! Her art is super amazing and it’s like “holy crap this is awesome”.))

One day I was Tumblr, goofing off
Until I found this user, shuploc
Someone had reblogged her art
And I just had to stop

I was like

“Holy shit man! What the hell?!
They drew Markiplier really well!”
I just sat there frozen, my mind begins to race.
Checking out the blog there’s more well drawn
Pictures of Markimoo’s face.

“Holy crap!”

But then people came in and gave her a hard time.
From the left, and even from the right.
Luckily we came in and took her side.
And that’s about when
My mom came in
And told me to stop shouting ‘cause it’s past midnight.

“Oh. Sorry.”

i wrote this poem a few months ago for my English class. I hope you like it, or don’t, i don’t really care. sorry for the shitty video. And sorry for the awkward pause and weird hand movements… i’m a very uncomfortable person

here are the words to my poem ( there may be typos)

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

Why should I be paid less but work just as hard,

and forced to need a sign that says, ‘baby on board’?

And why is it okay that a man gets to vote on what I can do with my body?


Today we live in a word where shouting, 'fire’, is more affective than 'rape’

and I terrifies me that my daughter,

someday, will share the same fate

of a place where her clothes give more consent than her precious voice

and she will accept being objectified because, ’boys will be boys’

right?


Isn’t that what we do?

We make excuses for the problem then blame those it effects.

Because she was asking for it,

right?


Even with her mouth stitched tight with fear her dress,

still screamed yes,

didn’t it?


But since when did inanimate objects have a voice?

This isn’t a childrens book,

this is my choice!


I don’t want her to fear dark parking lots,

or need a man to say no for her, and

she should never have to use the excuse that,

she already 'has a boyfriend’,

because in what world is it okay that an imaginary person,

hold more respect to a man than her actual right to say no?


And no means no,

there is no other meaning.

And she shouldn’t have to grow up in a world where she is treated more like property,

and less like a human being.


So take a step back  and really look.

Maybe all men aren’t like this, but the point is,

none you should.

And you have the audacity to be upset because, we offended your gender?

Well maybe you should do something,

because it isn’t getting better.


These women are your mothers, sisters, daughters, and wives

and you wouldn’t be here without us

so give us the respect we deserve, and although we had to row up with this world,

no other girl should

have to look over her shoulder every time she walks to her car,

or god forbid, leave her drink unattended  at a bar.


So no more excuses, no more ’boys will be boys’

women are not toys to be played with.

So learn from you mistakes and make a

choice.

Because what you fear most about prison is that,

'boys will be boys’.

1.
A man walks into a hospital and asks for a surgeon because he needs a change of heart. “What’s the problem, sir?” But that’s the problem. There is no problem. 

But a letter isn’t a letter until you write it. A song isn’t a song until you sing it. A hand shake isn’t a hand shake until you shake hands. A trick isn’t a trick until you fall for it. Maybe a problem isn’t a problem until you say it out loud.  

2.
A man kisses another man and they decide to spend the night together.   The other man, he has a wife, but he says he doesn’t love her, “not the way I love you.”
He doesn’t understand. “How do you love me?” It’s hard to tell.

And now it’s three days later, he’s at a kitchen table all alone eating blueberry pie as the fork clanks against his teeth, mouth stained blue, or maybe purple; it’s hard to tell.

3.
A man crosses a river and crosses the desert and crosses his heart all because he says he loves a girl. But then she says it out loud and suddenly he has never wanted the sun to disappear in the sky more than he does now.

This is the point where she cries and begs him to stay, and he almost does. He shifts from one foot to the other and opens his mouth, but he never says it.

That point, that point over there, is where he rans after her, grabs her shoulders, kisses her on the mouth, and tells her he will stay. But he never gets to that point, he would never do that.

4.
A man rips out his heart and calls it a sacrifice. 
You can’t give up what you never had.

—  This is your love, hk

With Iain we used this website called Cast It Talent, which is amazing ‘cause you don’t have to have an agent to audition,“ Gosling said, when asked by del Toro about how he found his leading man. "You get these wildly intimate auditions,” he said of the site. “You really get a sense of this person. It’s not a generic process. I asked all the guys who auditioned to do two things: to do that Robert Frost poem from 'The Outsiders’ and…to dance.”

Gosling explained that he had his actors dance to get a good read on the performers, from the song they chose to the way they moved. Of the poem reading, Gosling said he was looking for someone who didn’t read it an “emotional way – without any salt or pepper.” “[Iain] read it like he had to do it for school, resentfully, and that’s what I wanted,” he said of why he chose to cast the actor. “He’s selfless and gives the scenes to the other actors. It’s a beautiful quality. When he danced he did the waltz with an imaginary girl and he kept leaving the frame. He just had me.

— 

Ryan Gosling

More details from Ryan.

anonymous asked:

Any headcanons about what the rest of the Amis do when enjolras is really really sad? (Even their fearless leader must have bad days)

I think most of Enjolras’s bad day are triggered by the state of the world he lives in. He opens the newspaper and sees all the work he has left to do and the things he can’t fix, even though he tries his hardest. Sometimes, he feels like he’s not making any difference at all. And, of course, les Amis never stay idle when the lows hit :

  • Combeferre and Courfeyrac team up to remind him of his past achievements. They will create a full powerpoint, dig up photos from demonstrations, newspaper’s articles. They will demonstrate how useful and crucial his actions have been. They will rekindle the fire in him because “Goddammit, you’re EnjolYAS, not EnjolYIKES!”
  • Eponine brings all the photo albums she has (all 8 of them) of les Amis. They’re ridiculous and hilarious and Enjolras can’t help but laugh because he loves his friends so much the way they are and he wouldn’t trade them for the world
  • Bossuet will roam the web in a quest for happy news stories. He’ll come back with a list of random acts of kindness that happened all over the world just to prove him that other people are like him, trying to make the world a better place
  • Joly goes all out and brings like 15 different boardgames to Enjolras’s flat. They will Hungry-Hippos-it out if need be but he WILL make Enjolras laugh with his impossible strategies at Operation
  • Jehan be like “You know what you need? You know what you really really need? You need to shout at the top of your lungs under the night sky, man! You need to let it out. All that sadness you’ve got there? Vocalise it. I do that in poems, but you’re more of a shouter than a writer.” So they bring him on the roof of his building and they shout stuff into the Parisian void, ending up giggling because it’s ridiculous but it feels GOOD.
  • Feuilly takes him to the orphanage he grew up in and introduces Enjolras to the kids as “the superhero I talked to you about” and Enjolras could just cry right here right now, Feuilly what have you done, Feuilly why are the small citizens hugging me, Feuilly?!
  • Bahorel takes him out for a drink, to keep his mind of it and ease his nerves. They usually come back completely smashed, laughing like mad, Enjolras talking nonsense and falling asleep the moment he hits the pillow
  • And finally Grantaire. Oh Grantaire. He has his own technique for when he’s sad, and thought his boyfriend could benefit from it. He places Enjolras in front of an enormous canvas, at least 25 brushes and paint pots scattered on the floor. “Go on.” “What? Paint? R, I’m not… It’s not what I’m good at” “I’m not asking you to be good. I’m asking you to be, period.”
    Grantaire then proceeds to spill half of the red paint on the canvas in a swift yank : “See? No need to be good.”
    Enjolras ends up covered in pain, his frustration clearly unleashed on the canvas, out of breath but feeling incredible. And for one second he understands what Grantaire feels for art and kisses his boyfriend so hard Grantaire is covered in pain as well

nathanielthecurious  asked:

You just made me completely rethink the Aeneid. The historical context and the way you brought together the flawed elements of Aeneas' character made me realize that I've been understanding the work only at the most basic, high-school level. I'm still trying to mentally reconcile your reading of the book with the patriotic Augustan epic I thought I spent the last year reading, but wow. Thank you.

………

Oh my goodness. This is one of the most amazing messages I have ever received. I think my day just went through the roof. Thank you so much for taking the time to say this, it’s amazing to hear that I’ve inspired anyone even just to look at something I’ve gushed about, let alone rethink the Aeneid, which is one of the ancient works I love most and has so many better qualified people interpreting it <3

I hope you don’t mind me taking the opportunity to go off on another rant about the Aeneid. Firstly, don’t worry about interpreting it at a ‘basic, high-school level’. I’ve read it several times and I get something new out of it every time — it’s that kind of text. Even at its most basic level it’s an incredible work. I have always loved it, even when I did it in secondary school and I joined in with everyone joking about how Vergil seemed to be going out of his way to make Aeneas as much of a drip as possible (because he was not a bad warrior in the Iliad — he was better known for his wise advice, and as for fighting, he wasn’t quite good enough to beat Achilles, but was anyone?! He had a go, and he’s the only warrior in Homer who gets credit from the gods for trying) and asking why the hell Vergil started the poem with the hero wishing he was dead. It was fashionable among my fellow students to hate Aeneas because of the whole Dido affair. We laughed at him almost sinking Charon’s boat (which, to be fair, I think is intended to be funny), we laughed at him running in tears after… everybody, we laughed at him asking obvious questions, we laughed at Anchises’ ‘LOOK AT AUGUSTUS’ speech, we nearly killed ourselves laughing at ‘I am pious Aeneas and my fame reaches the stars’.

We missed the point.

I was lucky in that my teacher really loved the Aeneid and understood it, and really let that seep into the way he taught us. I knew pretty early on, because he explained it to us, that the introduction of Aeneas was intended to shock the reader, but I just couldn’t comprehend Vergil’s motive for that at all. Okay, you’re shocking the audience by having the hero enter in the most unflattering light possible, but… why? What do you gain from that? Does he come back from that? Arguably no… he ends the poem in complete despair at the moment when he’s supposedly won. Why would Vergil do that? Because I didn’t understand that, I always felt that there was something missing in the way I read the poem. My teacher seemed to see this melancholy beauty in it that I just didn’t understand, he seemed to have this quiet admiration for Aeneas that just didn’t make sense.

And I think when it hits you is when you feel sympathy for Aeneas and not amusement, and the poem even spells it out for you and you think how did I miss it? Aeneas says, ‘sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt’, an infamously untranslatable phrase that means something like, ‘Here there are tears for things, and mortal sufferings touch the heart.’ I do think that is the heart of Vergil’s poem. His hero stands before the citadel of Carthage, Rome’s great enemy, and Vergil states that Aeneas feels hope because he sees that these people (whom the reader knows to be Rome’s enemies) have a sense of human suffering. Vergil is often compared unfavourably to Homer, but in Homer, Odysseus feels hope when he encounters people who give him gifts, fawn on him, make him feel important, and most importantly don’t eat him. Aeneas just wants peace of mind. And when people say that the Aeneid is just parasitic propaganda justifying imperialism, I’m like, have you read it? I just don’t understand how anyone who has read the end of this poem could even say that. 

The moment you realise just what an ingenious move Vergil made, how much more human he makes the work, that’s definitely a wonderful moment and I can’t explain how glad I am that I had even a small part in that. I really hope you enjoy discovering more and more surprises in the Aeneid

Keep reading

i’m tired
tired of sleeping
of eating
tired of tiredness
i can’t really think
no,
not like this
i can’t speak
my mind
can’t answer your
stupid question
no,
not like this
and as days pass
i guess my head
is not really
on my shoulders
anymore
they kick it around
and i sit and wait
and wait
for something to
change
but it never does
it stays the same
no matter
how much i don’t do
so while
i’m not doing anything
to stop it
i wrote this to
complain.
—  filthy young man

It’s two am in the morning and I’m wide awake.
And I’m tapping to the keyboard my life away.
I guess it was the caffeine or the chocolates I ate.
But I know I would be lying. I know I would be denying.
Tonight, it isn’t the coffee nor the sweets.
It was you. Yes, it’s you. Fuck you.
I’m afraid that this would happen. I’ve always been afraid.
That there comes the night that you would be bugging my mind.
And that time I dreaded long enough has come.
And I know, for sure, I lost. I’m lost.
I’ll be lost until I break. Until I get hurt.
Until the pain etches it’s mark in my mind.
I can’t have you looking at me, the way I look at you.
I can’t have you staring while I walk by.
I can’t have you getting curious about how I feel for you.
Not now. Not when I’m trying to forget about you.
Not when I’m getting over this silly infatuation.
I don’t want to. I can’t fall in love with you.
Don’t make me feel like this. It’s not worth the risk.
I’ve stopped staring at you. Even the urge is too strong.
I’ve stopped saying your name. Even I like how your name rolls off my tongue.
I’ve stopped looking for you. In the sea of faces in the crowd.
Even If you were the  reasons of the poems I wrote.
Of the phrases I quote. Of the stories inked in my dog eared journals.
In the pieces of papers, in the scattered tissues, everywhere.
I have to stop. I got to stop this feelings growing. Lurking, waiting to burst.
Waiting for you.  
Because if not, I’ll fall. I’ll fall hard in the kitchen floor.
And I assume you won’t be able to catch me.
Because somehow, you’ll see all the secrets. All my demons.
All flaws, all my imperfections, all my scars.
And you’ll just leave me hanging like they do.
Leave me in the middle of a page, being the book always left  half unread.
Like always. Like every single time.
And I don’t want that. Not again.
Because I’m afraid I’ll lose every love I have for myself.
Because I’m not the girl  worth fighting for.
I’m as swift as the coursing waters.
I have the force of a great typhoon.
With the strength of the raging fire.
As mysterious as the dark side of the moon.
Do you want a girl who’s man enough?
Do you?

And now, it’s three am in the morning. And I lie in the bed, eyes closed, I pray to God
Mumbling my wishes, dreams and hopes as I hear my heartbeat racing.
My breath hitching. The clock ticking, the wind passing by.
And before sleep shuts me down.
I admit.
I like you. Heck, I love you. I think I really do

—  from my dog-eared journal about you