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empty seas Jan 2018
If I die don’t cry
Look up at the sky and
Say goodbye

-the Loved One
I saw this in a bathroom stall, and I thought it was good, so I wrote it down. It’s not mine
Jey Blu Jan 2018
I could live in your eyes
They pulled me in
From the start
A whirlpool and a firestorm at the same time
Drawing me in
To drown me
I used to fall asleep looking into your eyes
Now I stay awake because they're gone
And so are you
Your voice still rings in my ears
And the shadow of your face lives in my my mind
I miss us
I miss you
I miss the lilt of your voice as a smile played on your lips
I miss your intoxicating laugh that could bring me out of any rut
I miss the way you would bite your lips when you looked into my eyes
I miss the way those eyes stared into my soul and took over my heart
Why do you stay in my dreams?
Why does  your image haunt me at night?
I find myself thinking about you all the time
You're a drug
You're not my drug anymore
But I'm still addicted
Why won't he leave my mind
Lex Nov 2017
If you really know me you should know that I love the stars
I love sitting outside at night no matter what season
Whether i'm on a pile of flowers,grass,leaves, or snow
And i love for you to know
That to me you are a star

no matter how mad I am at you
for all that you put me through
I will forever think of you
as a star

who, you may ask is this star you speak of
they shine so bright
they fly higher than a dove
sit tight
I will tell you my love

I love that he keeps me smiling
I love that no matter where you are
the thought of you seems to warm me
because he is the closest thing to astral
that there ever will be
NerdyAlien Oct 2017
My day was as gloom as the starless night
When clouds threw their spears down to me.
The tears in my eyes had blur my sight
As I realize that he was never meant to me.

I was saddened of the thought of him
'Twas just a one-sided love.
Ellie Chestnut Jun 2017
Brian Doyle, who died on May 27, considers the capacity of the heart

Consider the hummingbird for a long moment. A hummingbird’s heart beats ten times a second. A hummingbird’s heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird’s heart is a lot of the hummingbird. Joyas voladoras, flying jewels, the first white explorers in the Americas called them, and the white men had never seen such creatures, for hummingbirds came into the world only in the Americas, nowhere else in the universe, more than three hundred species of them whirring and zooming and nectaring in hummer time zones nine times removed from ours, their hearts hammering faster than we could clearly hear if we pressed our elephantine ears to their infinitesimal chests.

Each one visits a thousand flowers a day. They can dive at sixty miles an hour. They can fly backwards. They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor, their metabolic rate slowing to a fifteenth of their normal sleep rate, their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be. Consider for a moment those hummingbirds who did not open their eyes again today, this very day, in the Americas: bearded helmet-crests and booted racket-tails, violet-tailed sylphs and violet-capped woodnymphs, crimson topazes and purple-crowned fairies, red-tailed comets and amethyst woodstars, rainbow-bearded thornbills and glittering-bellied emeralds, velvet-purple coronets and golden-bellied star-frontlets, fiery-tailed awlbills and Andean hillstars, spatuletails and pufflegs, each the most amazing thing you have never seen, each thunderous wild heart the size of an infant’s fingernail, each mad heart silent, a brilliant music stilled.

Hummingbirds, like all flying birds but more so, have incredible enormous immense ferocious metabolisms. To drive those metabolisms they have race-car hearts that eat oxygen at an eye-popping rate. Their hearts are built of thinner, leaner fibers than ours. Their arteries are stiffer and more taut. They have more mitochondria in their heart muscles—anything to gulp more oxygen. Their hearts are stripped to the skin for the war against gravity and inertia, the mad search for food, the insane idea of flight. The price of their ambition is a life closer to death; they suffer more heart attacks and aneurysms and ruptures than any other living creature. It’s expensive to fly. You burn out. You fry the machine. You melt the engine. Every creature on earth has approximately two billion heartbeats to spend in a lifetime. You can spend them slowly, like a tortoise and live to be two hundred years old, or you can spend them fast, like a hummingbird, and live to be two years old.

The biggest heart in the world is inside the blue whale. It weighs more than seven tons. It’s as big as a room. It is a room, with four chambers. A child could walk around it, head high, bending only to step through the valves. The valves are as big as the swinging doors in a saloon. This house of a heart drives a creature a hundred feet long. When this creature is born it is twenty feet long and weighs four tons. It is waaaaay bigger than your car. It drinks a hundred gallons of milk from its mama every day and gains two hundred pounds a day, and when it is seven or eight years old it endures an unimaginable puberty and then it essentially disappears from human ken, for next to nothing is known of the the mating habits, travel patterns, diet, social life, language, social structure, diseases, spirituality, wars, stories, despairs and arts of the blue whale. There are perhaps ten thousand blue whales in the world, living in every ocean on earth, and of the largest animal who ever lived we know nearly nothing. But we know this: the animals with the largest hearts in the world generally travel in pairs, and their penetrating moaning cries, their piercing yearning tongue, can be heard underwater for miles and miles.

Mammals and birds have hearts with four chambers. Reptiles and turtles have hearts with three chambers. Fish have hearts with two chambers. Insects and mollusks have hearts with one chamber. Worms have hearts with one chamber, although they may have as many as eleven single-chambered hearts. Unicellular bacteria have no hearts at all; but even they have fluid eternally in motion, washing from one side of the cell to the other, swirling and whirling. No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.

So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with no one in the end—not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so *****, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall. You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman’s second glance, a child’s apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words I have something to tell you, a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother’s papery ancient hand in the thicket of your hair, the memory of your father’s voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.
Brian Doyle- 1945-2012. This story was shown to me by my high school lit teacher and it inspired me to write my first short story. Maybe I'll post it one day
Scarlet Preysler Jul 2015
There's a hole in my soul
I can't fill it, I can't fill it

There's a hole in my soul
*Can you fill it? Can you fill it?
Javanira Waters May 2015
I find myself lost in the sad songs that speak about you and me. Sorry I didn't mean it like that. You made it clear that there is no you and me. No you and me means, you don't love me like I love you. God I ******* love you. I tell you that everyday. I could have you if I wanted, but you don't want me to try so I'm just here waiting. I'm here waiting to touch your lips again. I'm here waiting to call you mine for the first time. So I'll keep waiting, because you're worth it. Until then, you're hers not mine. She will never understand you like I will. Here I am listening the sad songs that speak of a you an me that is non-existent. The sad songs that speak of you and her that I wish were of you and me.
this one goes out to the girl I wish I could be with
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