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midnight.it is midnight and the clocks are chiming in the almost-silence. the sky feels like rain and somewhere, some girl is dancing and laughing and smiling, but she's certainly not me.midnight.
our hearts are cold. they've been sleeping, curled into themselves for too long without a blanket or a pillow or a smile to fall back on. it's midnight and the sky feels like rain and there's going to be a storm later, but it won't match the storms inside, that's for sure.
we are biting our nails, smiling and pretending nothing is wrong and saying, yes, darling, i'll get rid of this horrible habit in the morning. it'll all be better to
by ~Amertie
yeah, alrightalright.this isn`t about the sound of your heart or the way wind chimes sound so fucking pretty during a thunderstorm, and i know i don`t make sense but that`s because my subconscious is talking and you know what? i don`t fucking understand myself either. but this isn`t about me. and this isn`t about you. andyeah, alrightalright.
i think it`s snowing in the middle of july, because we`re such a world of opposites.
and i find that oddly poetic.
i want to tell you what`s hidden underneath this skin, to stop lying to you in ways that shall remain anonymous simply because i am jumping from star to star. moon to moon. but not planet to pl
by ~lovestruck-x
roamin'i named him charlie.roamin'
charlie was the sort to sit on the concrete rather than the bench three feet away because it was ironic, his guitar case under his shoes and a cardboard sign on his lap that read, "roamin'." charlie was maybe twenty, with too many deceased train tickets and copper-plated coins turning in his jeans. i would bet the contents of his pockets that he couldn't remember where his hometown was anymore, what his mother's face looked like, or why he left.
i wanted him to hold his sign the other way, i wanted to see if there were more permanent-marker words scrawled on the back. i wanted it to say, 'drive
by *ohsostarryeyed
broken poetry mani want to write you in the mud with broken fingers the earth is distrusted and uncooperativebroken poetry man
but it is brown and it is there which is more than i can say for you, broken poetry man
it's the rusted piping you say and the invisible dirigibles haunting the air like the ghosts of what we will never be
the gate you tried fixing still creaks
but i feel the salt in the air so loudly on my skin we must be by the sea i say and we both know we're not
the squares of my fingernails are filters and i am bleeding chlorine
by *ohsostarryeyed
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