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vibrantveins Feb 2014
This is not a love letter, but I have to get something off my chest since it seems you have decided to make a home out of me.

You live in my heart and my head, and hopefully one day in my hands.

You have taken down the boards I had blocking the sun, and you have dusted off the blinds. I think you were just trying to prove to me that you can make light touch even the darkest corners of me.

You have painted over my stained walls from past lovers. I hope you cover every inch of me with orange, I want to be your favorite color.

You have fixed my broken pipes and all the shattered lights and I am breathing again. You have fixed every broken floorboard and I promise I will not let you fall through.

You have patched up my roof and weather-proofed me, and I swear I will keep you safe from any storm that comes your way.

You have dug up the dead flowers in my garden. You have trimmed my dead leaves, but please remember to water me.

You have created a home out of me and I hope you never move away. I promise the neighbors are nice and the neighborhood is safe.

If you ever plan to leave please just burn me down, I don't need any owner other than you.
vibrantveins Jan 2014
There is so much to be said about the human body but I would like to focus on one specific part for a moment.


There is something so magnificent yet terrifying about these rather small body parts, in comparison to the rest of you. Hands are capable of fixing and breaking and shaking and crushing and holding and letting go.
(Please do not let go of me.)
There are little creases that tell stories and lead to greater things, like the rest of you.
Hands, like the rest of the human body, come in all shapes and sizes and tones and textures. They can be rough or they can be soft, every pair has the same capability as the next.
Hands are the root of Touch. Hands are the root of Feeling.

I think about hands a lot; your fingers dance around in my head.
There are stories embedded in your palms and I will listen intently to every word they whisper or scream.
There are little fires on your fingertips and I cannot wait for you to set me on fire.
vibrantveins Jan 2014
I promised my mother that I would never smoke cigarettes but here I am with you. It seems to be that I am addicted and you are the nicotine, how cliché. I remember in middle school when someone showed me how battery acid melts styrofoam instantly, and that was just one of the many deadly chemicals in those little white sticks. I imagine your touch to be something like that, my skin melting to the bone as you pour yourself over me. It's funny, because I watched my mother smoke for years, when she were upset or anxious she would smoke more to feed her addiction and calm down; I think I may have found my newest addiction. There is something so flammable about you and I will light you over and over again and inhale you because I need a rush. Soon it will turn into a dependency but I don't mind. "I can quit anytime." know I promised I would never touch those cancer sticks but if that was the only form I could find you in, I would smoke a pack a day for the rest of my life.
vibrantveins Nov 2013
My Father is the little boy kicking ant hills and pulling wings off butterflies, but he will cry and not understand why that beautiful monarch can't fly away and he will not understand why the ants have gone away. He has a spirit that has been lost for decades and I think now he has realized that he must search in order to find it. My Father crushed my Mother's spirit because he just never understood who she was but he knew he loved her and it was infuriating to him. He never meant any harm, genuinely,  he only wants the best like most fathers, and that was his downfall. I love my Father. He is my Father and the only one I will ever have. I will never look through the same glass as him and I have learned from his mistakes, just like I have from my Mother's as well (my father being one of hers). I have a little piece of my Father in me but I have a big part of Me inside and I know that I must learn and not repeat.
vibrantveins Aug 2013
forgotten ghosts
flutter around
in the background
of crowded rooms

dead or alive
neither would change much

but there's another
a lost
forgotten ghost
just like you
to be found

and maybe
through the crowd
above all the empty laughter
and meaningless conversation
you'll catch their empty eyes
and see a light

crowded rooms
are a lot
like a lost and found

— The End —