I'm fluent in sadness
and you are in art.
We speak of the same language
and yet you remain unaware.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
I love it when you play with words
and make art out of sadness
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
when life offers you
a taste of reality,
bite it with might.
chew, swallow, drink
darling, quench that thirst.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 8:05 AM UTC
Taco Bell, my love,
You fill the void in my soul.
Take all my money.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
as soft as the morning glow,
are words that come and go.
words that dance and play,
along with rhythms,
they flit and sway.
sonata, cantata, cadence
don't they wake
a sleeping good sense?
through whispers and
subtle strums, and stealth
what can't be seen
is heartily felt.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
You're like week old milk.
I know you're sour,
But I still have to take a whiff.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
didn't your mother
warn you, soft kisses come with
e m p t y promises
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
*would you stay even
after knowing my demons
have a hundred names?*
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
A word turned into a phrase
into a sentence
into a paragraph
another comma wasn't sufficient
to breathe, a period was needed
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
Was there ever a more beautiful sound than your name? To speak it aloud makes my heart ring like a bell. Strange to imagine that, isn’t it – a heart ringing – but when you touch me that is what it is like: as if my heart is ringing in my chest and the sound shivers down my veins and splinters my bones with joy.
Why have I written these words in this book? Because of you. You taught me to love this book where I had scorned it. When I read it for the second time, with an open mind and heart, I felt the most complete despair and envy of Sydney Carton. Yes, Sydney, for even if he had no hope that the woman he loved would love him, at least he could tell her of his love. At least he could do something to prove his passion, even if that thing was to die.
I would have chosen death for a chance to tell you the truth, Tessa, if I could have been assured that death would be my own. And that is why I envied Sydney, for he was free.
And now at last I am free, and I can finally tell you, without fear of danger to you, all that I feel in my heart.
You are not the last dream of my soul.
You are the first dream, the only dream I ever was unable to stop myself from dreaming. You are the first dream of my soul, and from that dream I hope will come all other dreams, a lifetime’s worth.
With hope at least,
Will Herondale
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC