keep smiling, everybody needs a break sometimes*
keep smiling, everybody needs a break sometimes
keep smiling, everybody needs a break sometimes
keep smiling, everybody needs a break sometimes
*keep smiling, everybody needs a break sometimes

we've spent approximately three months talking about authors and analyzing works and mentioning things like the author cannot give the audience closure because he doesn't have it himself and all i can think about is how i'm the one who needs comfort in a room full of students but i'm not going to get it

old habits die hard, and now i'm the one with the broken mouth and the burnt tongue, the person whose voice has been taken away because i cannot say things that are pictures anymore and i just wish you would realize how much of a constant struggle it is having to think about your memory at least once

thinking back to when you cared is something that i just can't put into a metaphor; i can't put any of this into a metaphor. if i tried it would go something like the way you made me feel was somewhere between two brick walls that were just continuously closing and i used all my weight to keep them open but i kept growing weaker and you kept growing forceful and the minute the summer days came into full bloom i was completely broken

sometimes i look out my window and i am convinced i need to get away because it will be good for me, but how can i build myself up against a world full of you? you're a drop in the water of *******, and for some reason i can't talk to anyone anymore without feeling like they're apart of your ocean

i'm waiting with all of my heart for thanksgiving -- waiting for the moment when i find out whether or not i can leave, and until them i'm stuck. maybe you remind me of colors and of snow, maybe he reminds me of white cars and hot chocolate, and maybe the other one reminds me of chlorine and equations, but maybe i can escape them all

english teachers will tell you that an author does things on purpose but i disagree. words fall onto the page as effortlessly as water flows through a mountain, and it's just because of this that the beauty of a novel comes about. i've been throwing my own ideas on paper for over a year, and now my own pages are finally soaked with the memories of you that i don't know how to apply the pen to a piece of paper without throwing that paper away. everything begins with a dot but it's time to start writing -- if it's therapy for certain great writes, it can be therapy for me too

i need to stop being afraid.

the days pass by silently without giving me much time to turn around and watch them and when i sit inside my room i am once again greeted by that old, familiar chill of winter

teapots full of emotions are being boiled over a stove that is clearly not warm enough to warm my whole body, but it keeps on burning regardless, and i notice that no one thinks much of anything unless it concerns themselves

i get this chill when the nighttime slows down that things are going to end, that everyone is going to vanish like the snow that tries in vain each year to stay forever, but then my thoughts leave as fast as the warmth of spring

winter is that old friend that you love to see but hate to keep you company when he opens his mouth about the things that used to be, about how you used to look out your window and see him fall behind tears, sparkling eyes, and disappointments and trust me, i get enough headaches nowadays to block out those memories but i can't forget dates in december that shaped who i was in january

if there's a piece of advice i would give someone, someone full of loneliness and desolation, full of the contents of despair, enough so that they feel they could burst, that they feel no matter what they do there will always be a dead end, that feel that they don't even want to write the tragedies they think and experience down in a journal because god forbid someone would ever open it, so they just stay bottled up

if there's one piece of advice i would give to them, it would be let your thoughts pour out like the way old winter brings them back; one night, just cry and let it drain you from any more tears; let that old, hideous, beat down, torn, broken, revolting chill freeze your mind, so that you finally get a *break

It's 5 o'clock and my world seems bleak once again, surrounded by the same ecompassing shade of remorse that it was last year

It's five oclock and I think I've remembered the art of despising myself but most importantly someone else too because sometimes I forget good enough isn't possible

It's five o'clock and the shadows surrounding my room are that familiar kind of inviting - the kind that doesn't need make up and cheekbones and ediquette and good grades

It's five o'clock and I just want a ******* break for once in my life

The mind is such a beautiful thing to waste; such a terrible thing to keep.

it's that walk you didn't think you'd take, that memory lane that was just five minutes from your house with a car because you've timed it on his phone when your curfew was midnight

the house that once held confusion and comfort now just holds those rusting patterns in your brain of walking up the driveway and heading for the door that once memorized your hand print as much as his

maybe you can escape snow this winter

it's the way that the light strikes his face and the way that you see his new accessories in the foreign couch you once loved the color of because you're all alone in this world girl and nothing is going to change that

perhaps they all think you're anti social because you fade into the background more than they do, what's the point of being unique when i'm redefining the lines of the old and the new, stepping on the boundary of emotions to come back to where i've always been: an end

memory lane is not in my heart and not in my eyes, it's nowhere where i want to be because i'm too **** emotional to be able to handle it and i thought it was a good idea but chasing after butterflies is always a lost cause because they fly away and you're still here

the birds have never looked so dark, the sunny days so terrifying and i don't find the door to the basement anymore because no one is there to open it for me

the sound of music leaves his speakers the way they used to his gramophone but he's up to new technologies now and haven't you learned you're the old cd left in his bedroom to accumulate dust

they don't listen to the music you shared with them in the days when the world was covered in angel tears because they brought umbrellas and youre late to the **** party once again