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onasunnysnow · 3 minutes ago
there are movies you watch throughout your lifetime and your opinion on that movie, on the characters, never change.
and then, there’s 500 Days of Summer.
I swear every time I watch this movie, my feelings change and I gain a new insight on the movie, on the characters, it always changes.
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tenai-tenshi · 7 minutes ago
Когда Они входят в Мой дом...
Когда Они входят в Мой дом: Они выпивают Мой чай, Они думают о своем, Им хочется не наблюдать. Она любит спорить с Ним. Он будет в ответ молчать. Они глядят на Меня — Мне нравиться не замечать. Они находят Мой дом. Не важно, здесь или там. Они отвергают излом, Они не скрывают спам. А Я живу среди Них. И мне не быть как Они. Искать и ловить Других, Сквозь небо не видеть Их. Сквозь ветер не слышать Их. Ни говорить, ни петь. Однако… Когда Они входят в Мой дом, Я вновь открываю дверь.
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xcorpsebunnyx · 9 minutes ago
✨ sleepy cuddling in bed with his arms around me I’d make a bratty comment just to feel his hands work themselves over my body and under my shirt to pull and play with my nipples, the other sliding into my sleepy time shorts to make me moan his name out into the darkened room. I want him to growl into my ear from behind as I keep making comments to get a reaction out of him, using the hand in my shorts I’d want him to pull them down to thrust into me as he growls and bites at my skin, getting rougher with me as he gets close to the edge, I want him to release inside me so I can feel him dripping between my thighs but not letting me cum the entire time, using me for his satisfaction and leaving me wanting more ✨
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quotefeeling · 11 minutes ago
I think we cry to release the animal parts of us without losing our humanity.
Veronica Roth, Insurgent
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endosmokepop · 15 minutes ago
A book that tells a story without reading a single word... Has lyrics written without glory which tells of a frightening world... Is this where I leave you... Or do you choose to walk out of the room? For all intents & purposes, no matter the action... We're controlled by our gloomy doom. So I'm here blazin', smiling as I listen to a bangin' tune 😁🎶
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wonderingdreamingwriting · 22 minutes ago
Of the moment of meeting
Push away your attitude
Never interact with you
As the memory of you
Take me how I am now
Yes you know things but
Never my inner weather
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fejkvin · 22 minutes ago
Hard Void
I dreamed that I was dead. 
I woke up with something worse instead, 
An eternal scream in my head, 
An eternal pain in my soul, 
My heart buried deep down in soil. 
It was so big, yet so ill. 
I travelled seas and hills 
Trying to fill the void nothing can fill. 
I realised that nothing ever will. 
I buried the void in the ground to stay forever still. 
It’s harder than the steel. 
Let’s be real, 
No boy could ever steal it again. 
Even if thy can, 
Thy ‘d ought to find nothing then. 
It’s just a hard void for all men
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tinysupergiant · 24 minutes ago
Manskin Wolves
Maybe I should just lie here for a while and dream
a mountain ledge to rest upon, beneath
a ceiling patched with green fields, where
like a dog, I’ll play
dead and
the wolves can strut around beneath me in
their manskins;
or a land that rolls down the walls
in blended earth tones
to the edge of the flat white tundra before
dropping off
sharply into
the abyss.
Maybe I should just lie here and dream about
Or let me just pretend it is the middle of day
and all the suns are shining
and the dog is just
and the only abyss I see
is the fathomless depth that
I’m drawn down into, at the centre of
your eye.
And on this day, our hands are full
of each other, and the horns of the watchtowers at
the city’s edge
blast one chilling blast, to tell all
that the wolves are coming
the sleepless have fallen
in love.
(Yes, maybe I should just lie here for a while and
dream that
I’m enough)
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favodywritesweekly · 24 minutes ago
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Love is painful. It’s not a fairytale, like the fictions we read paints it. There is barely any happily ever after. That’s a lie. There is nothing of such and it’s even worse when it’s one-sided.
Falling Into The Shadows
My coat strung tight to my skin,
Shielding me from the biting cold of the season.
Yet, exposing me to the piercing eyes of the forest.
My wet eyes watched the movements of bodies gliding into each other.
The pair were like the letter, ‘K’ as they fused on the leafy ground.
Oblivious that a soul was watching them like a hawk.
I could taste blood on my tongue as my teeth sank into it.
My chapped lip could not cry even with the pain on it’s own.
My heart seemed to be made of coal as it spittled emotions like a pro.
Oh! Why did I come?
Why had I followed him like a thief in the night?
When he barely knew I existed in the sphere of the earth.
Love truly was not something to indulge.
For it left you thirsty, other than filled.
Yet, knowing this, my feet still moved with his shadows.
I feel like a prude for nurturing the feelings in me.
Sighing, I turned my back away from the pair.
Only to kick the stick in my path.
Their eyes were on my back, I knew without seeing.
For I’ve crafted his movements in my head,
Like an artist didn’t to an abstract painting in the rain.
I ran like the world was on my back,
With tears flowing wildly on my face.
Oh! What have I done to myself?
© favody
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wonderingdreamingwriting · 25 minutes ago
Stuck in between
On loop
Memory hunt
Never forget
With no new
I cannot move
No way forward
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spress-net · 26 minutes ago
More than 500 line-length poems by Jidi Majia won the "October Literary Award" and "The Splitting Planet" was praised as "Poem of Sad and Angry Thought"
More than 500 line-length poems by Jidi Majia won the “October Literary Award” and “The Splitting Planet” was praised as “Poem of Sad and Angry Thought”
Cover news reporter Zhang Jie reports from Lizhuang, Yibin, Sichuan (more…)
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five-feet-too-short · 28 minutes ago
and when you look into my eyes, the brightness somehow vanishes, and all which is left is a dark ache of those lonely and sleepless nights i spent crying, the ashes of the days i burned myself down with all the hatred and guilt, the void which could have been filled by soft touches and sweet words. but all the brightness in my eyes has disappeared, and it’s time for me to too.
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huntedhunter · 28 minutes ago
self para // a poem like any religion, mortality and bewilderment
Hunter woke up in the morning not knowing what was coming for him. For all he knew, it could be him. Again. He didn’t know how they would pull it off in any way that didn’t repeat itself loop-like, but he didn’t have the imagination to guess what they were up to. He really did not. He dressed well, in shades of light brown, with white gloves. His hands were always too cold, and he had to wave them with dignity on that stage.
Everything happened too slowly, with a projection that must have taken ages, the first thing in ages he didn’t pay just mild attention to. The concept wasn’t new. They’ve had clones before. Never of dead people. His mind went for the worst. Jeannie. Addison. The knot stayed in his throat, but he didn’t show any discomfort on his face. Instead, he waited. The wait took passed by him in what felt like a decade.
Then, they were invited on stage. Who they were, he could only guess. He could only hope not to know. How many they were, he couldn’t tell either. District Eight has produced a fair share of popular, well-liked tributes. People he worked with before. People he knew well or less so. People he had believed in. People who didn’t believe in him (that had to have been their downfall, wasn’t that right?). He could recall a thing or two worth remembering about each of them. Cerise, Flynn, Gwydion, Linsey, Kenna, Marino, Elisa, and even Rocky and Pebble. The ones that didn’t die early. The ones that were supposed to have a real shot at winning. And, of course, Jeannie. 
From where he was standing, in the depth of the stage, he saw her from the back first. But he already knew from beforehand. It had to. It was vain to imagine everything revolved around him, but it did, and this was proof too. Nothing could ever exclude him, not when it was an opportunity to bleed out. He didn’t want to look, but he caught a glimpse of the shape of her nose. At that moment, it was all curiosity. As if it couldn’t happen in reality. As if the four people in front of all of District Eight were wax statues, and he had to find the mistake into his sister’s sculpture before it melted under the sun. The Escort was introducing them, and he missed half of it. People he didn’t recognize. People he didn’t care about. Marino Byssus. Jeannie.
Suddenly, he needed a moment. It was too much to assimilate, and a lot of it was his own personal ghost. Hunter didn’t offer anyone the satisfaction of a reaction, however. Instead, his eyes were still on the girl -- on what was supposed to be the girl -- he knew too well, even so long after. It appeared that a lifetime passed between them. A strange feeling of hollowness passed by him, something that looked like the ghost of that sort of anger that drew him to burn buildings.
There were two Twills, at least if you followed what the Capitol was saying, on that stage. Until November, there haven’t even been two Twills in the whole world. Just when things were getting better, just when Hunter had a somewhat fresh beginning in front of him, just as all the cuts turned to scars, there she was, back from the dead. Last time, she was just a handful of dust, not even a sister to bury. Hunter kept looking, except for the moments Jeannie looked back.
She’d turn and try to find him in the crowd, a little older, a little less. That was when Hunter looked away, as if electrocuted. He hadn’t asked for this (unless for a million of times). He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to talk to her, to see her, to get lost, once again, and this time for a Capitol clone. It was a terrifying hole to slip into.
This was not going to have a happy ending. Once again, he was going with (some sort of a) Jeannie to the Capitol, to help her dive into an arena he, too, saw twice. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t really happening.
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favodywritesweekly · 32 minutes ago
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Alright, this poem sounds cakey but it has double meanings. Just got a hold of it this morning. So, let’s go.
My fingers lapped the cake.
Threading it wistfully in my enclosed palm.
Feeling the soft elasticity of it, as it expanded therein.
It seemed juvenile to wish for a formation.
But still, I couldn’t help but envision a flower-shaped cake.
Even though, right now, all I saw was a shapeless formed cake.
Burdened by the flour on the still carpet,
I felt like maybe I could push one little flour to the mix.
But ended up pushing in one-two many flour into the overly formed cake.
What a mess!
But a complete disaster it was but my pride wouldn’t let up.
So, I pushed in some water thinking it would dissolve some, but…
Instead of dissolving, it became a solvent.
Out goes my flower-shaped cake.
And in comes my shapeless formed cake.
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thoughtkick · 35 minutes ago
Spend your free time the way you like, not the way you think you’re supposed to.
Susan Cain
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juan-francisco-palencia · 38 minutes ago
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Each person lives his own illusion; It is part of their love, and although it may be an emotion that can drive someone away, but generally it brings someone who will be important in their life. It is an emotion that the soul chose, and so intense that it can infect everything even to people who come into our lives unexpectedly.
- Juan Francisco Palencia.
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