This isn’t something I’m supposed to post. But my in-real-life friends who follow me are all asleep now, so I guess there’s no harm.
There is more to give
than coffee-stained silence
and second-hand lines
stuttered apologies
and sloppy rhymes—
to reach
the narrow confines
of our hearts.
I often say the word fuck when I get stressed and feel that the world is unfair. It gives me a sense of calmness knowing that I have managed to do something evil by cussing.
In those moments, I am no longer a caged bird.
So I say, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Solitude is good.
I need space; the tightness in my ribcage wouldn’t let my heart pound.
I lost my free-writing notebook in which I’ve written some personal entries. I don’t know what to feel, to be honest.
Leave
before our hearts decay
in each other’s care,
before the venom seeps
into the core of our affections—
before I change my mind.
Forgive me, I had to leave
before I get caught up with you
and your nicotine-laced smile.
With one stroke, full becomes fall.
I tuck my heart in a pocket full of sighs as you stare at her with your bedroom eyes.
I will try to seduce you with my pen
because when my words are written,
I do not stutter.
A pregnant pause—
between what you cannot acknowledge and
what I do not dare ask.
Warrior, here I am
waiting for you to accept my
heart, an auburn flame.
This is just a small crush. It’s not like I feel like pouncing on you and kissing you senseless.
I kind of paint sometimes. Nothing fancy. Just 3 synthetic brushes (liner 00, round 0 and 4) and some Reeves watercolor.
This one is based on a painting I once saw. It was a really long time ago, so I doubt I got it accurately.
Excretions of an active imagination.
A free-writing blog.
Only fragments, drafts and outlines are posted.
Personality Type: INFJ.
Misanthrope. Purple. French. Music. Art. Literature. Mountain dew. Coffee. Milk tea. Cheesecake.
Pro-Oxford commas.
Raw and unguarded.
Credits to whangster of deviantart for my display picture.