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Literature
You're The...
You're the sugar
To my ice cream.
You're the blue
To my sky.
You're the bud
To my flower.
You're the ink
To my pen.
You're the paper
To my book.
You're the...
Wait.
Did I say all that?
I meant to say:
You're the poison
To my apple.
Literature
please let me get what i want.
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up. I woke up with this bone-deep ache that never went away. I woke up to an incessant question playing in my mind that would never be answered. I woke up alone.
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up without you when I woke up at all. The thing about time is that it never does make anything better. It just means more space to think. It means sleepless nights trying to figure it all out. When it went wrong. How to make it better. It means slowly losing my mind. But it never once meant getting over you.
It's funny how the things you think you've forgotten always come rushing back when you
Literature
these feelings should be finite
I'm terrified and I know there's nothing unique about this, but I'm standing here completely out of touch with the rest of the world, realizing for the first time that we all feel things a little bit differently, which is why this doesn't hurt for you at all. I figure the only logical reason for how you could do this as if it means nothing was if it really did mean nothing at all for you. It's easier to hate you this way. It's easier to forget you without the burn of your kiss against my skin. It's easier to stay mad if I don't have to remember the way that it felt. Most of all, I can forget this as if it's a memory in someone else's lifetime
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Comments26
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This is quite interesting... it feels as if the soul has been tarnished from a great colour like gold to something as dull as bronze... or maybe it's just a gradual thing that is typical with life, who knows.
Great stuff, anyway.
Great stuff, anyway.