It starts with a glance in the wrong direction. Then your
eyes fixate upon each other, followed by small smile of
acknowledgment. You find yourself staring a bit longer
than usual: you look away. All that fills your mind the
moment you look away is the intensity of the stare, the way
you got lost in that moment, as if time had stood still.
Cliche. Then that thought is followed by another glance in
the same direction, still wrong, but you choose to ignore it.
He stares back with the same intense eyes, but this time
you notice the longing, the lust, the desire. It’s as if you’re
staring in the mirror, at your reflection because you notice
the same longing, the same lust, the same desire.
And that’s how it all begins: Betrayal


Without logic

I haven’t slept in two months
but sometimes I wake up
to a table top.
Sometimes there is a blanket
hanging onto my shoulders,
trying desperately not to let go
of the child I used to be.
My father’s gaze holds a million words
that no one knows how to say.
My mother’s heart bleeds
on her sleeve.
Sometimes I can see too much of the world and I blame that for the breaking
harbored in my chest.
Everything is so beautiful.
It’s hard to bear witness
to all of it at once.
I like to think I’m the stitch
that just doesn’t quite fit
in the seams of the
I don’t like pain without reason
so I spend my nights
finding excuses
and I wash them away
with a drink.
I realize, now, that suffering
is often without logic.
It still doesn’t help me sleep at night.



I spend too much time apologizing for the wrong things..”Sorry” every time i have to ask someone to move their cart at the grocery store. “Sorry” every time i have to ask someone for help. “Sorry” when i forget to hold the door open for strangers. “Sorry” to fill the empty spaces where “sorry” doesn’t belong =). but the sorry that matter, they’ve made a home in me. They’ve moved in furniture and switched the drapes and ripped out the carpets for wood and tile and they want to die there under the skylight where they can feel the sun without ever having to go outside.


just a couple words to say.

If you love or care about someone
let them know, you don’t
even have to say the words,
just smile, just call, just message or
just do the important things
before the time slips
out of your hands and
theirs are too far away
to reach out for…


Wake Me up, Mama

Mama, I fell asleep
and I never woke up again, didn’t I?
Tell me to open my eyes,
that this is just a dream,
that no, I didn’t lose
who I have lost.
Mama, promise me
when I wake up
this body will be healthy
and my heart will be strong.
Swear to me these wars
are just the shadows
of a nightmare,
tell me I’m not dying.
Mama, are we both asleep?
Did we take a nap
in the same bed
the way we did
when I was five?
Did you press your cheek
against my forehead
and catch my fever?
Mama, I’m begging you.
Wake me up, wake me up,
wake me up.
My heart hurts
and I’m too tired
to keep it beating.
I’m afraid to fall asleep.
Wake me up, mama,

Tags: wake me up

Friday, at last! 
Photo by © Jamie Mitchell on Flickr


Friday, at last!

Photo by © Jamie Mitchell on Flickr

(via robk1964)



Weekend Hashtag Project: #WHPstrideby

Weekend Hashtag Project is a series featuring designated themes & hashtags chosen by Instagram’s Community Team. For a chance to be featured on the Instagram blog, follow @instagram and look for a post announcing the weekend’s project every Friday.

This weekend’s tag was #WHPstrideby, a hashtag that took its inspiration from the #strideby series created by Instagrammers @jillshomer and @eric_le_reveur earlier this year. This weekend’s project asked participants to capture photos and videos of solitary people walking through interesting locations.

Every Monday we feature some of our favorite submissions from the project, but be sure to check out the rest here.


A girl who writes

a girl who writes.
a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes,
because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music.
Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’lltake her longer to get ready.Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining.
Tell her your definition of love. From a
girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will
dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with
ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out
adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a
blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.
She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or
impossibly quiet). If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.Use a
pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or
of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best
theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her
first novel. It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her.
Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks
and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their
thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.
She’ll give you a chance.
Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who
writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take
time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She
will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for
better or for worse.
A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book
does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it
spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.
Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.
If you find a girl who writes, keep her close.
If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently
on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for
a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the
two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.
She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning
into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.
She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s
quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright.
You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains.
Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s
radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.
You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she
will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely,
remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay
with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.
Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be
enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your
firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the
half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations
that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.
Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.
Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely.
She’s got the most colorful life.
She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who
writes because a girl who writes reads.
A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in
stories, she lives in reality.
I found this in one of the article, it’s verry interesting, so i posted in here.


Dont date a girl like me

Don’t like a girl like me. I am a firecracker, a roman candle..dangerously unstable and wickedly unpredictable..
I am enticing and exciting, the thought of holding me in your hands makes your stomach twitch. You flick the metal
on the lighter, set me a blaze and have to run twenty feet back to escape my explosion. The sound of my fuse
blowing is deafening, but burst of me isn’t as exciting as you expected. In the end I am just a charred stump of
paper and wood, I am nothing you expected me to be in the end.
Don’t date a girl like me. I am a wave, a rolling current. You stand on the edge of the water, ankle deep in sand
from waves that sucked you in ages ago, unable to move… You search the horizon for something new and there I am.
Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your thighs tighten as you spot me a few yards from shore. This will be it, you think, this wave will be the one to break you from these gravel shackles. You can feel the cold sparks of me against your
thighs ages before I even break.
This is it, you repeat. This is it. This is it. This.is.it. Then I rush into you and you are refreshed, your feet loosen from the sand and before my waters have receded, before I have run back away from you, you have taken off running for the safe warmth of land.
Don’t love a girl like me. I am the sun..a hot bright spot a million miles away from you, untouchable and magnificent.
I am the warmth and light, after a month of clouds; after years of living surrounded by winter. I remind you what it is
like to be awake, to be excited, to be alive. Your entire body feels as if it has been asleep for years and along
came my light and forced your eyes open. You want to hold me, but I am too hot. That makes you want me all
the more, makes you want to pull me from the sky and keep you next to me. Then days, months, years, come and
go and your skin starts to peel, your lips are so parched from all the heat that you can barely press your lips to
mine. There is just too much heat and light. I am not variable enough. You need a few days of clouds, a few years of winter again. I am too much, you realize.
Don’t know a girl like me. I am everything you ever wanted and nothing you can ever need.


Broken pose

There is a poem on my tongue that I would never dare to speak. It’s a blossom, a flower, but it has the bite of a
rose - it bears poisonous thorns, so I’ll leave it as prose…
You see, I loved him to the core of my soul. I saw his flaws, his mistakes, and I still loved him whole. There’s a
shadow on his heart, and darkness grows in his chest.
He is a runaway soul, forever living in unrest. But you see, I loved that about his smile. The fact that it was faltering,
but shone for awhile. His life was harsh, and the winters too cold.
I loved him, I loved him, my dearest friend of old.
But he loved another and as such stories go, my heart was wilting underneath all the woe. You see, I was happy, but
the sorrow stripped me bare. I spoke to him in riddles so that he’d never care. He was out of my reach, and far from
my hands. I loved him, I loved him, with a love that was grand.
But soon, this willow heart rooted far deep, and this willow, oh this willow, decided it did not want to weep.
So its tendrils lifted to the very sun, and unraveled my soul, letting it come undone. I was free, I was free - not even the darkness could catch me.
I’m sad, today, for different reasons indeed.
It is his heart now that weeps and bleeds. You see, he doesn’t love her,
because she wasn’t there. She left him behind, and the darkness ensnared.
You see, now his heart recognizes my name.
But this soul of mine is no longer the same. I love him, I love him, but
only as a brother or friend - that romantic binding is severed, and at its end.
I ache in his name because pain holds him tight, but I am
free, and I am shining bright. I know nothing of love, and love knows nothing of me. I am free, I am free. I am free,