Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.
Ignorance has become a new fashion: the dresses on the red carpet and the
Black mascara on the TV screen. We write things as epiphanies come,
While they are out there making fools of themselves in their transparent or
Nonexistent clothing and neon underwear.
I imagine all of the people in Tome Square, even though I have never been.
The daily routines and mechanical gossip about the bastard celebrities that run their lives
And the stench of portable hot dog carts. You are a numerator of what you could be.
Wake up... You're dreaming. Try harder, you can't run faster after you have
Stepped in quicksand. You are so stupid! Look ahead! Watch for things before they come,
You are too impulsive!ay attention to others for once, it is not all about you.
Truth has become a new fashion: faded jeans and thick sweatshirts. Those of us
Who understand and seek nothing from others;
They are not worth it.
If rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix’d in Love’s decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell—
What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet—she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen—
We naught but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,
Add half the sunshine to the hours,
Or make life’s prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty’s happiest part;
This gives the most unbounded sway;
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of Time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
He caught me by surprise
I never expected to blush
when an abrasive, goth dude
said my ass was cute
His clothes are all black,
as black as his hair,
and his heels are as high
as the moon in the sky
He is a criminal
and I am terrified
but more so of how hot
he looks when he talks
He has a beautiful face
so perfect in all proportions
and I am sure that I may
be turning very gay
He looks hot as a woman too
and my cheeks flush when he
dances with that sass
I have a boner thanks to his ass
He is so funny
not in the usual way
but it's funny how things got
when I feel in love with the guy from the donut shop.
Inspired by Vee's fanfic titled 1994 where Levi is this goth dude who is a cross dresser and Eren and him fall in love and it's so fucking unexpected and real you just have too many feelings until you stop breathing.
It's extremely exciting and very sexy. And funny too.
If i wrote a story, it would be a tragedy. But it would not be about the blood that flows from my legs at night when my mother thinks im sleeping. It would not be about the days wasted crying because no one could hear me when i broke. It would not include the story of two 3 year olds who lost a loving father they barely had enough time to know, or a loving wife who had the light of her life taken by the forces of death. It would not be about the darkness that engulfed my friend, who then became the darkness, and bled away into the shadows to join the ghosts that called so softly to him, he could not resist. It would not be a story of the girl who took over 100 tablets in 3 days because of a boy she loved who told her to do it, and the pressures weighing on her shoulders were pushing her into an early grave. It would not be the tragedy of her survival and the continuous pain and shame that she endures to this day. No. my story would be about the futility of life's arrangement and how the world around us is crumbling to dust and we are doing nothing. It would be about the thousands who are starving and crying who no one seems to give a damn about because they're the 'minorities'. It would be about life's cycle with death, and how so many are ripped from loving families before their time because the universe works in cruel ways, and -if there is a god- he or she is moving chess pieces across their board and watching them crumble. My story would be about the skilled children and poets that no one has heard of because, as everyone knows "its not cool to write poetry" . My tragedy would be about the injustice of law and how those in love are denied being bound to one another because they are of the same sex. It would be about the millions lost to wars that history repeats again and again and again over new, yet just as trivial things. This is not my tragedy. This is everyone's.
It's always been a thought that's been hard to swallow
the giving up my life only just to follow.
The turning point is already gone
there's no changing my mind now, what's done is done.
I see those around me prosper and live
breathing in their lusts without a care to give.
I ask, "was this all worth it in the end?
To trade a life of living by the world so I could hold your hand?"
That I may walk on the water and not fear the waves
that I may see only comfort in the sight of my grave
this life is but a fraction of what I can't see
departing from the worldly, but in a sense being much more free.
I couldn't pull my thoughts together as to why
this continuous pursuit of you keeps leaving me dry.
Let your rain pour in me, for I am a bowl,
speak your truth in my heart, fill my dusty soul.
The puzzle I see remains in a jumble
but in the midst of the storm, your mighty voice rumbles.
It is louder than the thunder and clearer than the rain,
it casts out the worry, it ceases the pain.
I say "here I am" and you take heed to my call
I brace for impact with my back to the wall
I feel you then, more like a warm summer breeze
that draws forth my breath and brings me to my knees.
"This will be worth it", you whisper to my heart
"You'll be mine forever, you've been mine from the start."