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 Jun 2016 ephemeral
ED
The first time I tripped,
It was over the shoe laces
of a boy with hazel eyes
and Venus fly trap lashes.

When he laughed,
I saw a thousand butterflies
leave his mouth
like a confetti explosion.

Captivated by this winged downpour,
I sought to release every single butterfly
from the cages of his ribs;
Until they filled the spaces of grey planes,
which followed every cynic’s footsteps,
and pollinated every flower
of a dying breed.

My world became a kaleidoscope
of time and colour
where I could no longer distinguish
sunrise from sunset.

Careless of the clock’s limit,
I took its hand and spun circles
within the butterfly boy’s garden
foolishly forgetting
that neither butterfly nor boy
were creatures for all seasons.

So when the first red drop of tomorrow
fell from a tree,
The swarm of colours flew south
taking with it, my kaleidoscope lenses
and the boy;
Still, with his shoe laces undone
and his insides
a nest of larvae.
He never came back and I never found out who gave him the butterflies in the first place. - E.D
 Jun 2016 ephemeral
Amanda
On the inside,

I'm a wonderland.
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
Amanda
There was a time I hadn't met eyes with you.

Starry it was before and simply galaxies after.

You begin to realize love is a home, no longer a word or two syllables.

The shy kiss, the blurting of I love you.

Being the voice when the other cannot speak.

Tears & sobs catching at the hinges of swollen throats when you both know it is time to let go.

And let go as we may, but I'll hold on to what we have made.
I cannot quite articulate my thoughts after watching The Theory Of Everything. It's stunning, raw, truthful and. and. whatever I say will not do this cinematic masterpiece justice.
One lasting thought I have however is that love needs to be love.
Night night everyone!
x
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
Amanda
B
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
Amanda
B
Blame is a highly, highly strange thing.
Latching onto anything, it sews itself into the weak, the strong, the inbetweeners.

{Like fire-flies to light. Vice-versa. }

Simply because the world needs a bad guy.

In the same way, we need good hearts.
Hihi you, you & you!
I began a new journal for stories & such, and it feels beyond invigorating. Eeeek.
x
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
Mick
And this isn’t some sad love poem about how I still love you
I don’t

But out of all of my mistakes, you’re still my favorite
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
Bailey Lewis
Our lives are just like books
Filled with numerous chapters
We may not like what’s inside
But turning the page and
Continuing the story
Is the only way to move on
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
serà
Untitled
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
serà
She has endured too much pain
that the words that trembled
out of her mouth
became poetry
Madness. Stark raving madness.
Leaping flames of the mind. Gently licking
at the heart. Blood set on fire, brought
slowly to a boil. Madness. Stark. Raving.
Madness.

The conversation simmered as such:
"Don't be dramatic."

Is this how we go about
pretending we are shocked
when people cut themselves shoot themselves
hang themselves end themselves when
they are told to simmer as such:
"Don't be dramatic."?

Drama is my eye sockets bleeding
heavily at paper-crumbled past midnight.
But of course I cannot do that.
I cannot bring myself to bleed.

Drama is my hands effortlessly
clutching a neck- any neck, I don't care whose-
and squeezing until my eye sockets bleed.
But of course I cannot do that.

Drama is not a breathless exasperation
when suddenly a wave of the same old
same old begs to drown you again
and once again you must pick up a pen
to survive. Darjeeling you
tire me oh so very much. You hate me
oh so very much I think. You...

No, me
and my madness. Stark. Raving.
Madness.

Which I can't let happen again
because apparently dramatic is
being able to barely
take my next breath
and wondering why
respiration in a classroom
should be a mountain climb.
Meh.
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
Amanda
10:49
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
Amanda
You absolutely do not get the honor of burning a numerical value on her self-worth.

You certainly do not get to measure that assumption from the hem-line tailored on her thighs. Or the daring dresses she wore because it made her feel a different kind of beautiful.

She is not asking for it. What she will demand for is neither your attention nor stares. She wants respect.
Can you do that?

Oh, and when you are emboldened by your 'witty' validation that she  is a ‘****’ or of promiscuous nature, all down to the clothes she wears on her back.

Don’t.

Cotton stitches against warm skin. (She was enjoying a walk.)

Silk swathes on slightly chilled bones. (She forgot her jacket on a Wednesday night out with friends.)

Thick knits adorn even more layers of cotton. (It was a winter night.)

Their cold lips pursed by the late hour, scream silence.

With that validation, you normalise and excuse the acts of ****, soul-destructing ****** offences.
For you have blamed the victim.

You excuse a depraved psychological state.

The veins that choked from ice and no’s. You have forgotten.

Rapists and ****** offenders do not get the luxury of being excused.

Neither do you, ****.
The anger and frustration I feel at victim-shaming or '****'-shaming.
 Jun 2015 ephemeral
Amanda
I write to breathe a l i t t le easier.

Black ink adorns the nook and cranny of my fingertips, hugging even harder upon once-blank pages.

I try to exhale out the thoughts of meaness, madness and spice from this warm body.

To keep a smidgin, a flutter of innocence from a different time & place.

Most importantly, those 10:51pm, 3:22am thoughts written onto paper is a nudge of a reminder: Sleep. Sleep better.
Hey you, aren't you looking lovely?
x
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