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the aroma of a roasted bean chocolate coffee would never beat
John green's new edition..
nothing in the world would smell better than good books..
𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕓𝕠𝕠𝕜 𝕨𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕖𝕕 𝕤𝕠 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥..

                        𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕓𝕖𝕔𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕤𝕠 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕧𝕪 , 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕩..
You laugh, you cry, and then you come back for more.”
—Markus Zusak
ilias Nov 2020
I give vent to my grief
on top of the hills,
my heart still hurtles
and all the way down
expedited by ills
i count the turtles
FiguringItOut Apr 2020
“The problem with sanity is that I CAN’T lose my mind, it’s inescapable.”  
Sanity is a spiral.  An ever-tightening coil, that goes around and around.  

One may find themselves at the beginning, their head perfectly clear.  
But as time goes by, moments of absurdity start to appear, like mosquitos at the start of Spring.  It feeds off you.  Picks at you, like a scab ready to burst.  

Until you finally reach the center and the spiral is so tight it crushes your psyche.  
But the thing about spirals is that they never end, there’s always more.  

You may never fully break,
But you can always turn around and find the beginning once more.  
And just remember,
“Your now is not your forever”
Even if the spiral may feel that way.
Casey Mar 2019
I had those random thoughts again.
Such as; how people pick you last for the first game of the semester played in a gym class, even though they don't know how good or bad you are.

It's off of appearance alone, which is *******.
"Oh they look thin, they're probably not good at (sport)."
What the **** does that have to do with anything?

When we played soccer, I showed up everyone else,
even though I was picked last.
They had the nerve to say to me, "Wow, good job!"
As if the notion that I was good at a sport was some sort of miracle.

Not like I played soccer for eleven ******* years.
Not like they knew that since sixth grade.

The way they say, "Wow, good job!", makes me sick.
They say it to me as if I'm unable to be good, just because they perceive me to be horrible at sports.
They sound so surprised.

Another thing's been stuck in my head ever since I've read Paper Towns.
John Green mentions people seeing mirrors of others as who they believe the person to be.
I find this true.
People love to think that they know someone very well, when they only know the version that they've created.
Green says we need to see through the window to see who the person actually is.

Which seems ******* impossible.
But it's not.
Just talk to them instead of assuming.

They've already built a mirror of who I am.
Of course, it's completely wrong.

I'm not some boring skinny twig that can't talk right.
I'm not smart, and I'm not rude.
I have emotions, and I really care about others, much more than myself, even.

That's not who I am to anyone else, though.
I have these journal entries on my phone that I'm posting here.
I need to go to a burning man. I need to lose myself in the woods for a year. I need to make my threshold and enter through. I heard my call a long time ago but I just never...
   I can't stand myself any longer! I must lose who I am to find what I am to become. And I can't do that in a world where I exist in everyone around me. I need a place with none of me and plenty of else. So much that I can spread myself out to one thought thick. Finally be raw, enough to see myself clearly.

   I shouldn't worry about forevers, because forevers are simply composed of nows.

   I want quiet place to sit against the tree, look out over a lake, and read until my eyes bleed pleasure, my brain secretes knowledge, and my heart wisdom.
   A place to harbor a gentle haze of mind, a place to leave myself behind. Just and think and think some more, until and passed the point of being head sore.
   I want to place with plenty of glasses, and plenty of cracks, plenty of muses and no ways back.
   A place full of forevernows and nevermores, where people are stupid enough to cross the desert because of a recurring dream. A place of pink purple sunsets and endless shores.

   How mirrors have learned to lie I will never know, because I don't recognize the person they show. I have to turn them around because even my own eyes try to deceive me.

  If I don't I will always want to. If I do I won't enjoy every step, but I will a few.
   The hands that shaped this road are now, older.
   I don't know how I will, and a not even sure I understand why I will. All I know for certain is I MUST.

   Because I can't stay here. If I do I will fall in love with possibilities, and not realities. I will fall in making people out to be more than a person. I will lose my heart to and afterimage of a dream, and even if I do I would never have pursued it anyways. I want to leave the field, sell my flock, and start my full circle, or square.
   Wherever I go I have no plan know method know fall backs, but the beautiful hair of uncut graves. With only the Spektor inside my books to hold me.
   I want to hear the symphony of stars each night and have the wind tell me its stories of its travels that day.
   I want to sleep knowing the poppies stand guard.
   I know nothing, and I'm ready to listen, but first I must get out of my hand made prison, burn the map smashed of compass. Put my feet anywhere besides in front of the other that way I'm going nowhere fast and never looking back.

   I want to teach myself the song of my soul, so that I can hum every bar by heart, but I can't do that here. Not in this place of paper people and towns who live their lives never getting wet.

   It says if I can ever catch my breath, that I'm strangle lading in the stench of mold and excitement of leaving and never coming back.

   Mark here this day, as I lie awake at night as the last moment I spent outside the labyrinth. I need, no, I must leave find a place where I can listen to my heart and drink and its wisdom. But that place is not here I don't know where to, but I must start.
   Thomas Edison last words were " its very beautiful over there, I don't know where they're is, but I believe it somewhere, & I hope it's beautiful"

                                                     ­     ~Crow
We resided in an empire of lights
On the second block from the right
Waiting for morning

I thought of how damaged people are
She was gentle as a falling star
"I love you," we refrained
Inspired by Tin Hat, and John Green's "Looking for Alaska"
4 | 31 Poems for August

Woken up by the sound of rain.
Writing about intimate memories until sunshine finds me again.
It may seem like I cannot see but sometimes the darkness becomes my light.
It’s amazing to see a love this beautiful shine so bright.
I found love in the midst of pain.
I found sunshine in the midst of rain.
Your perfect imperfections are the most intriguing parts of your being.
Sometimes these words are just not enough to describe all that I feel for you.
Your hips are perfectly contoured for my hands to hold on to.
When you’re not here, these hands don’t know what else to do.
We found love in the midst of pain.
We found sunshine in the midst of rain.
The pages of my heart are saturated with words describing how remarkable you are.
In a sky full of constellations, you are my favourite star.
Your perfect imperfections are the most intriguing parts of your being.
A connection this strong was destined.
I gave you love, you gave me reflections.
Now a song by Justin Timberlake keeps playing on the radio.
I may be introverted but my love for you will always show.
Maybe that’s something our friends need to know.
Woken up by the sound of rain.
Writing about intimate memories until sleep finds me again.

“I don’t know a perfect person. I only know flawed people who are still worth loving.” – John Green
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