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Source: riverofbones

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writingboutyou
Existing is exhausting.
Waking up, is exhausting. I’m guessing that’s why I’ve missed so much school and why on the weekends I sleep well into the day.
Getting ready, is exhausting. Making myself look good, for who, for what, for why?
Going to school, is exhausting. Doing the same thing and going through the same motions I have been for so long, looking at the same white walls and the same old people.
Everything is exhausting. I’m trapped in this tired haze and it’s my existence. I’m living but I’m not. I am afraid this is no longer a state of mind but what I have become.
I have become utterly numb and utterly tired of existing in itself.
v.m (via writingboutyou)
ifthenightcouldtalk
Alone. She ignores it all day, keeps busy with school or work or anything to distract her mind. She avoids sleep because she knows she can’t escape it then, the loneliness in her chest. Eventually she has to give in and she hopes she’s exhausted enough to fall straight to sleep. She doesn’t want to let those thoughts in. But she can’t fight it forever. It’s at 2 am, when she lays curled up in bed because she doesn’t want to feel the emptiness, that her mind turns to black. The darkness of heartbreak crashes in and the tears swell in her eyes while her body shakes until exhaustion takes over and she falls asleep. She may get a few hours of rest, but she knows it will all start again tomorrow. The cycle of loneliness. The cycle of missing him.
The cycle of heartbreak. (via ifthenightcouldtalk)
writerscreed
glimpseofmylife

he absorbs her every move
he does not want to miss a smile
a laugh
or even the way she rolls her eyes
he admires the way her lip curls when she gets excited
he adores the way her face lights up when she does what she loves
but he knows it doesn’t matter

she can’t take her eyes off of him
she loves to see his smile
his laugh makes her day
she loves that he doesn’t worry about others
she admires the way he is always strangely calm
she adores the way he throws his head back after singing
but she knows it doesn’t matter

he’s charmed with her essence
she’s infatuated by his being
yet they both remain silent

—it was a captivating misfortune

Source: glimpseofmylife
writerscreed
Sudden– like stale cigarettes and pale girls that didn’t know how to love so they pick guys that’ll help the days go by. Cold– airy like your breath, but we never got to kiss, I can still feel my fingers trace your spine, another letter about not being able to call you mine, baby, I love you just isn’t enough and it’s no longer true, but the truth is some dead part of me is still fucking in love with you and we’ve changed. Stitches– words still tremble through my voice, I can’t look at myself and I hate myself, secrets etched into my skull. I think about every night, but you’ll never know. Fuck the metaphors, I’ll just live a little. Fuck the time, when you’re living in your prime– life is such a strange event. How many days will fly by as I’m missing you tonight? Stretch– like the way you held my gaze for longer than a second, I love this month, I hate this month, I love you much, I hate you much, I hate myself, still learning how to love myself. Trust– you tore through my heart first, it’s only right that I do the fucking same. An eye for an eye and love is truly blinding. I hate you to the point of exhaustion, I just want it to go away. I love you to the point of nonexistence, no wonder I miss you when I’m sinking into my depression. Oceans– you used to hold my thoughts into a bag, asthma attacks will decaying lungs, it’s the only way that I know how to love. Kiss me until it hurts or don’t kiss me at all. Sex– summer dresses and moonlight sonatas, fucking until the sun finishes its love letters to the moon. The myth is a lie. The moon doesn’t only show up during the night. You’re just not paying attention to the little details that is us. And we’ve changed. Flimsy– paper heart of mine, like you ran into my hands and didn’t want to let go, origami soul with a hint of watercolor tears– shit, I can still hear your voice when the rain whispers lightning and thunder into the middle of December and I’ll die a lonely death some day, we came into this world naked and alone, crying those sad little tears won’t get us anywhere. Reprieve– like the love that we had wasn’t enough, so we had to look for it somewhere else. Love– like it was supposed to end, like you knew it was going to end, and like how it ended– I wanted a happy ending, but I’ll take a sad tale that doesn’t have a princess. I’ll take the champion with his steel sword and fire proof shield melted into his flesh. At least he died for something. At least he didn’t hold his breath when he said that he loved you. Not like how I could. No, never that. Poetry– I don’t need this, I just want the depth. Prose– keep it into my palms, one love letter at a time, one broken heart lost in the sands of time. Fuck– my favorite word.
shit. (via everylittlepieceofyou)
Source: pianoetry
wordsnquotes
solace
(ˈsɒl ɪs), noun | 1. One of the most beautiful words to utter and feel in the English language, solace is defined by the state of comfort and alleviation during distressing and sorrowful circumstances. 2. verb | Solace is also defined by the ability to console somebody’s heart, soul and mind. Your words and intentions give them a refuge in this cruel word. A uniquely beautiful word in the English language, its definition coincides with its sound and aesthetic. Uttering the word simply gives you comfort and warmth.  (via wordsnquotes)
Source: wordsnquotes.com
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