When it's raining
I can't decide
If it's the sky
Screaming out in agony,
With broken roars of thunder
And brilliant, crashing streaks of lightning
Or
If it's the sky
Releasing all it has to offer
In gentle tears of rain
Filled with all the sorrows
And regrets
Of its blue wonderland.

Maybe the sky
Is never sure how
To release all its anger,
All its sadness,
All its confusion.
And so on some days
It rains,
Crying softly.
And on others,
It screams
And shouts
With thunder.

Maybe we
Are like the sky.

(a.m.)

An imperfect gentleman's gentleness isn't always so gentle. Women walk around with an ideal idealist mental of a man. A man that's ****** but **** good at building a dam over the damnedest dirt road. Some day those roads fall apart and the dammed will depart with no heart until a renaissance  period breaks through with art. So the man paints a picture of the women's heart severed in pieces ripped up like a jigsaw puzzle. He will spend his life stuck in this painting with the patience to put it back together forever with no avail he failed. She's moved on and he's back to being a gentleman pledged by an hour glass.

-angel torruella

i.  am. not. strong.* i am paper-thin skin, ripped and torn, floating in the ocean with salt scorching the wounds. red ink pours into the water, and i am trapped in a circle of great whites, smelling the innocent blood and ready to feast.

i'm not strong. i'm scared.

i am sexually attracted to pencils.

"Write about the most courageous
thing you have done and how it
relates to the novel"

She said,
But after hours of
pondering
He couldn't think of anything
Brave he had ever done

And, by the time the deadline
was approaching
All of his memories were
swirling around his mind in a
big blur of brown confusion
And not a single one of them
an act of bravery

But, finally, amidst the chaos
he managed to write
three words.
three words that made up
the entirety of his essay
And those words were:

*This is bravery.

Some people aren't supposed to be loved by other people. They only need love that important for them. Anything else, only other **** that you could find in street.

I bit open a lie and it tasted like you.

I had some happier days in life
When he was my husband and I was his wife
When he used to believe in us
When he used to think that we were soul mates,
though that thought did fade
When other than each-other nothing else mattered
But now he doesn't believe that anymore,
and all those dreams are shattered
and all I am left is with a sea and a shore
where despite of many people
things seem quiet and dark
I sit alone looking at the tree of apple
and hearing dogs bark
I know you won't come back ever
because you are happy where you are
And I won't always remain a broken-hearted girl
As someday I'll also find happiness when u'll be far
But if ever (fingers crossed) you come back to me
I will want to flee
and I'll come back to you
so that I get again happier days a few.

I'm sitting at the edge of every minute you thought should've been your last, thinking.
Thinking about how different things should be verses what they currently are.
What if my fingertips weren't built like the tips of matches?
My hands would be more skin than third degree burns or the look of a kitchen ceiling after a mother's cry for help after burning down the whole kitchen trying to put a meal in front of her children,
with an empty bottle of whiskey in her left hand.
If this is how it needs to be so that you can cope,
you can burn my insides like you're trying to get the attention of a rescue helicopter,
but don't think for a second you can use me to warm up your hands while we wait, don't you dare.
You can treat me like a war zone but you will not shed a single tear over any bloodshed pouring through my territory.
None of this should've happened.
The only tone you'd ever taught your voice was to let your tongue hit the back of your teeth
the same way rain hits the inner workings of a chestnut piano,
you set it in a storm and 'rhythm' loses its meaning.
You've been taking piano lessons since you were six,
your voice shouldn't sound this way.
Maybe if I had learned to let go the correct way,
If I knew there was a correct way.
Either you let go of something and watch it hit the pavement and try to keep the feeling away from your heart,
or you let it slip right from your fingers which doesn't work out well when your fingertips are made of matches and your veins are storing gasoline.