Do not fall inlove with a writer
they see and feel everything.
particles that somersault in the morning ray telling them to embrace the day
They can smell the haunting
aroma of a coffee
whispers 'go grab your pen and write'
they look into a person's eyes
and could witness
how a sea crash into someone's soul
Do not fall inlove with a writer
they appreciate and value everything you do
they could see the entire universe
from your smile
only the ocean could tell
their hopes and fears.
They easily fall and break too hard.
Don't fall inlove with a writer
they'll make you their muse
from good times to bad times,
you will be the lyrics of their song.
I like my simple way of writing
It represents who I am
And who I sometimes want to be
I like the way I think, I’ve found a certain freedom in it
But that freedom exists nowhere else
Not in any organ nor sinew nor bone
Django is a free slave.
Too long I’ve been feeling like a trail gone cold
Pull me by the back of my throat, rest in the bed of my bones
And call me home
Because I’m lost, and maybe I just want to be found.
I Didnt forget my power, I didnt loss my mind. Just drifted into infinity to come back to world that was ready. In a world of endless possibilities, and scattered lightwaves, its a focus that makes a fire.
His eyes shined
like stars in the midnight sky,
he is perfect.
This love is perfect.
The way he talks with his hands,
the way he walks when he stands,
the way he smiles at me,
he's so perfect to me.
The way we can talk for hours,
the way we kiss in the rain showers,
the midnight drives back to my house,
oh how I love him,
everything in life is so perfect to me
he is perfect.
I’d consider a trip over two quills and a bottle of ink,
A wooden pencil as well; an eraser-ended one.
A sharpener green and stacks of empty notebooks;
Two chairs and a short table upon a patio, with a drink.
And I’ll be content with:
A couple forests to watch,
Rings of rainbow to wear,
And a piper to dance with.
Then maybe after a nap under a lyre;
trilling upon a bed of proses,
And just maybe then I’ll write for you.
The most tragic story isn't the one written by Shakespeare
or Hans Christian Andersen
It is not about Romeo, Juliet and their forbidden love, dying together
Nor a man, a mermaid and their impossibility to live for each other
It is about a writer and a reader:
Where the writer has written down, in every language, every realistic & imaginable word & emotion for the world
But the reader doesn't even have a chance to read them
The most tragic story is about the reader who can not read, and in the end, the writer who will not write
The most tragic happily ever after is where the reader and writer end each other
I’ve been craving female companionship as of late. The need to have her in my presence at all times. I want her, face against the wall with joyfully erratic breathing, hands tied behind her back. I want her on all fours, head swivelled my direction with a smiling look of pleasure. I want her legs wide open for me, only because it’s me, only because it’s her. I want my tongue to make musical instruments of her nipples and clitoris. I want her to put me in her mouth so I can see her eyes tearing with shameless sin. I want her in her parents’ bedroom, I want her in tut rooms and auditoriums, I want her in the back of my car, in McDonalds, in elevators, under restaurant tables and on top of kitchen counters, I want her to say my name under soft moans during rough rounds. I want her in as savage a manner as possible.
I want her sitting in silence with me. I want her to listen to my ramblings, to sit there and be present. To exist. I want her to have her own ramblings, to educate me. I want her lips to be available for me at all times, for my head to make pillows of her chest. I want to introduce her to Ben Howard and Tom Misch, to Planet Hulk and The Pixar Theory. I want flowers to remind me of her. I want her to cradle me when Chelsea loses, to stroke her hair and rub her tummy when she has monstrous cramps. I want to hear ‘I love you’ over loud laughs between soft kisses. I want her on butterfly wings. I don’t know who she is, but dear God I want her to laugh, because I know I’m going to love her laugh.
I want so much from her, I want her to want so much from me. I want so much that I never wanted before. Only thing I’ve been wanting was to feel again, now I need to feel again in order to get what I want. I want her. I want more than me.
I’ve been feeling a certain emptiness
I feel like I’m not enough
I’m not enough to make myself as happy as I want to be.
I feel like there is nothing more I can do for myself.
For so long, I’ve been happy because all I’ve wanted, I’ve given myself
Or I’ve taken, but
I don’t satisfy myself anymore,
And I can’t take what I now want.
I think, for the first time in a long time, I feel lonely.