“Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you've felt that way.” ― Charles Bukowski
Submitted by revoltinglittleworm
And then one moment we share our hands in holding and I am engrossed with a feeling that cannot be explained— maybe the stars know what I am speaking of.
Submitted by wordsbyt
Love Letter #618
If I wrote you a love letter, it would start out like a country song. I’d say you remind me of the moon, full of the light I need. I’d tell you that you are cool like the night, and you soothe me. That I need you to rest easy. To dream. I’d say the days with you are like long rides thru winding roads. That I can’t get there fast enough when I’m coming for you. I’d say you are brighter than the neon in our favorite place. That your smile warms my heart, like the fireplace we cuddle next to. That you take care of me in a way that is music to my heart. I want to wake up next to you. Everyday. Every day. How I want to be what you want, because that’s what I want. That I miss you when you’re not here, and will kiss you when you are. I’d say you are mine and I am yours then, now, forever. As long as I live. How real love never goes away. Never dies, even if I do. If I wrote you a love letter, I’d tell you all this.
Submitted by wordsbyt
So Today
So today, I’m not gonna let someone being angry, make me angry.
So today, I’m gonna do what I want, and not what I don’t.
So today, I’m not gonna worry about yesterday or tomorrow.
So today, I’m gonna be my best me, not the best me someone else expects.
It’s finally about me.
Selfish? Maybe.
But, I’m the one that has my time left, whether it be short or long. It is my time.
And I ain’t got time to worry bout things.
Except what I want.
Sounds simple doesn’t it?
And it should be.
Me.
Submitted by wordsbyt
You know, I’ve forgotten you. Just like I said I would. Unless of course, someone mentions your name. Then I remember. But, I have forgotten you. Yes I have. Until our song comes on. Then maybe not. Besides that, I have forgotten you, just like I told you. Except when I look in the mirror, and don’t see you behind me, then maybe I think of you. Only then though. Not often. I forgot you. Maybe you could count the times I called your number, or almost texted, but that was only late at night. That doesn’t matter, right? Because I forgot you. Yes I have forgotten all about you….
Submitted by wordsbyt
Bottled Up
I kept it all bottled up. Then, what should have been tiny drops of rain, poured out like a river. They were inside too long. I kept them hidden, so no one would know. And I nearly drowned myself.
Submitted by wordsbyt
She Wondered
She wondered, “what would it be like?” To go unnoticed. What would that feel like to walk among the people and not get stared at by everyone? Ogled. What would it be like to be free? Free of the beauty that restricts her. Free of the chains that come with a face that ties her to everyone. She wondered, “what would it be like?” To have a love. A love that loved her for her, not her beauty. A love that would get to know her, take the time to know her for her. A love that she could love back, and talk to, and hold. Hold close to her. A love that would close their eyes when they kissed her. Not stare in disbelief. She wondered, “what would it be like?” To be free. To do the things that others do. To be able to listen and watch others without being put up on a platform, a stage. To admire without being admired. To sing without being sung to. To love without being loved. To earn her way, without being given. All because she’s pretty. All because she’s so pretty. She wondered, “what would it be like?”
Submitted by lejournaldecha
I was born twice: The first time when I came to the world, the second when I met you.
Submitted by yourscenegirlfriend
There are no more tracks on how many loops around the world I’ve done at this time to act as if I was a traveler from another dimension, brought to lift shoulders and steal pain from palms that chose not their fate. As someone who feels deeply, outside of this epiphany - on the writings - dedicated to souls on their backs and stuck expressions with tall tales, I can’t help the want to grasp their face and achingly ask why. It is something I can’t figure out myself, but I can see the hope in some of their eyes that it will be seen. That person isn’t me, you know - to save them. Although I will help along the way. The secret is this… Eyes that focus with love and desire, can save just about anything, maybe even anyone. Even if you are looking in mirrors.
awinterkissx | your reflection on my frames.
Submitted by revoltinglittleworm
A love that consumes my whole,
so I am swallowed by the earth
and that is where I remain;
it’s core,
She is beautiful in a way that makes people forget what they were going to say when they look at her.
Source: thequotejournals.com
We’re all damaged in our own way.
Nobody’s perfect.
I think we are all somewhat screwy, every single one of us.
Johnny Depp (via wnq-movies)
Source: thequotejournals.com
Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.
Source: thequotejournals.com
There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. There is no act more wretched than stealing.
Isn’t it odd how much fatter a book gets when you’ve read it several times? As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells…and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower…both strange and familiar.
Cornelia Funke, Inkspell