“The bravest thing I ever did was continuing my life when I wanted to die.”
— Juliette Lewis
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I had a friend ask me what one of my poems meant. I had to think about it for a bit. I finally told her that I don’t really know for certain. I mostly just type out my feelings then pare it down, searching for it’s meaning afterwards. Some of my poems I understand from the start. I have an idea or emotion that I try to share here in poetic form, but most of my efforts here are still a mystery to me.
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I would love to know what he thinks of me now. Does he say that we were something great, but it just didn’t work out? Or something, maybe, more poetic like: we were a star, shining bright, but like all others, we were doomed to collapse in on ourselves. Probably not. He never did enjoy poetry much.
Maybe he says that I was a mistake. Maybe that I was a hookup that never meant anything. Maybe I was just another name in a long list of girls that he could’ve loved.
Or worst yet, maybe he never speaks of me at all.
Excerpt from a book I’ll never write (via mymessyink)
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The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is susceptible; impression follows impression through its clear sphere; where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the lid: that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness.
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë (via existential-celestial)
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