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alliana.

@theartsofalliana-blog-blog-blog

life is boring but people + the internet make it somewhat bearable. i'm pretty lame. poetry & photography are my escape. boys are dumb because they break your hearts. you can probably find me reading a book, going on adventures, or playing with kids or animals.
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latenightcornerstore
My father was a Man of God. My father was a liberal, pot smoking hippie who cursed like a sailor and knew two dozen ways to kill a man with his bare hands—my father was a pastor. And he had a white-knuckled grip on faith that I do not fully understand, but he preached gospel like him and Jesus were old buddies who snuck out and went drinking together— the bail-each-other-out-of-jail kind of friends. He held hands and broke bread; he had a way of making a congregation feel like a family. He believed in heaven more surely than I have ever believed in anything. My father was just a man. He had a lot of rage in him. And when the pills stacked higher than the pages of a hymnal, he went looking for god with a spade and a shovel, he dug the gospel out of me. Tell me, what do you call a washed up preacher too sick and feeble to do the lord’s bidding? Well. I don’t know what you’d call him, but I called him Dad. He had a lot of names for me and one of them was Ungrateful but it was hard to be thankful for the shaking shadow of all the things my father used to be. See, my father was a sickness in a suit of skin. Some days, he was more pain than person and he made sure we all knew about it. I did not grow up in a quiet home. There was no room for heaven at the kitchen table, we had to save a seat for Pain and one for Loss and one for all his medications. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder and my relationship with my father made a lot more sense after I lost him. Death makes a space for forgiveness. There is lots of space in my parent’s house without him. I was never on first name basis with my dad’s idea of god, but for all that hurting he held in his hands, my father was a good man. Even if he was hard to live with. And he was hard to live with. And, Dad, if your god is up there, then I hope he’s playing old blues, smoking Marlboro reds— telling dirty jokes and singing hand-me-down gospel with you.

I DIDN’T SPEAK AT THE FUNERAL by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

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wnq-writers
You aren’t just a two arms And a beating heart, Or a warm body With an ordinary soul, You are more, way more… You aren’t just a pretty face Or an usual grace, A poem that breathes With eyes reflecting galaxies, You are more, way more… Show me everything you hide All the smallest things you even forgot about, Everything you’re afraid of Even if you fear the wind when it gusts, Tell me about your insecurities Let me show you they’re the source of your beauty, Show me your scars I would love them away, Tell me what do you hate about yourself And I’d love them the most, Guide me to your darkness I’ll be the company that would make you safe, Share your silence with me I’ll make it sounds like peace, Show me what your anger is made of Kill me, burn me I want to get hurt by you, All the violence you use against yourself Use it against me, The soul you were born with Deserved to worshipped, You’re fathomless I can feel By the worlds you hide beneath, You are an ineffable gift Honey, you are a miracle.

Maram Rimawi  (via wnq-writers)

Source: wnq-writers.com
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late-nights-and-daydreams
It’s not good that you only slept two hours last night. It’s not good you could only eat half a meal today and keep it down. It’s not good you only caused yourself a little harm today. It’s not good that You’re barely functioning. It’s not good, but it’s better. You’re getting better, and That’s all that matters.

(via late-nights-and-daydreams)

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silk-est
Stop romanticizing mental illness. Depression isn’t just pretty pale quiet girls sitting in the corner of a coffee shop reading John Green. Depression is sleeping for fourteen hours straight even though you already took a nap. Depression is being so numb to the world around you that you don’t even tear up at your grandfather’s funeral. Depression is greasy hair and a dent in the bed where you’ve spent too many afternoons waiting for something better. Depression is the night I wrote my note, sealed the envelope, and tried to poison the sadness with a bottle of prozac. Anxiety isn’t just the shy boy who hates presenting in class. Anxiety is crying in the school bathroom for no reason. Anxiety is a cold painful sweat that makes every muscle in your body tense up. Anxiety is repeating your order over thirty times in your head so that you dont mess up when you’re asked ‘Would you like fries with that?’ Anxiety is the time I ran out of spanish class and couldn’t breathe because too many people laughed when I mispronounced a single word. Eating disorders aren’t just pretty stick thin blonde girls. Eating disorders are hair falling out and fainting in the bathroom. Eating disorders are canceling plans with friends at the last minute because you’re too afraid that they’ll question why you aren’t hungry. Eating disorders are being so hollow and empty that you don’t even run the water in the sink to mask the sound of you emptying your stomach in the girls bathroom. Eating disorders are the time I left school for three weeks and cried for hours when I returned and was told I looked a lot healthier. Stop romanticizing hell.

(via dumbbabe)

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I guess I fell in love with a mythical character. No, not the one you read in books but rather, the person I have made you up inside of my head. I fell in love with the fictional you and not the real you. Simply because, your reality does not exist with mine.

And so I have to keep you and love you in silence (via somepiecesofmyheartandsoul)