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grumbles & rambles #1
I know nothing comes convenient for me.
If it's done too easily, too nicely, too swiftly,
Then I must be bound for something horribly wrong—
That will only shatter me.
I'm afraid of laughing endlessly, of accepting gay,
Because I know pain and sadness and emptiness are its loyal neighbors.
But then again,
I have this theory,
That I attract what I feel.
I must be too sad then.
Too uncertain
Too lonely
Too much
Much less
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Though I try and find too many ways to,
what else is there when the people themselves don't love what they do?
I wonder how I had managed to stay and stay and stay,
but then it's easier to love what I'd known to love day by day.
I myself am very much afraid, as I grow older,
I start to see things, experience things, and become stronger and bolder.
I tell myself that I can't and won't and don't quit,
but then again, I don't say NO when I want to stop it.
If, due to a miracle, I'll be able to survive,
the haunting question remains: will I then be alive?
I can't even say, bet only time will tell.
oh, how I just wish myself well
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The way you look at me hasn't changed, no, not at all.
I draw you when I near,
you draw me when you're here.
You always start our sparse conversations,
and I always seem to be the timid person.
The set-up is with you looking at me,
and with me looking to leave.
You make me nervous.
You're so assertive.
I make you..., what?
Wish I could scavenge your mind.
Our situation hasn't changed, no, not at all.
Your heart is still, presumably, hers.
I wish time would just stop,
And the entourage would begone.
No rules to limit,
No feelings to suppress,
None to lose or win,
Again, I'd confess,
—wordlessly.
The way I feel about you hasn't changed, no, not at all.
Uncertain, against all odds,
The thought of you makes me want to cry.
Certain, despite overwhelming,
Your presence, I sense, without having to try.
I'd say no,
It's nothing.
We're nothing.
You're nothing.
But fate says yes,
It's something.
We're a lot of things.
You're everything.
Why do you keep looking at me? Why, why, why
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U.N.S.P.OK.E.N.
We are
Lightly glancing
Always tense
Rarely talking
Sometimes blessed
Almost touching
Almost there
Not quite right
Nothing's fair
Often further
Unexpected
Tilting nearer
All enchanted
Nightmares soft
Tension wild
Thoughtless thought
Seek and hide
Wandering, wondering
Lips sealed, mouth shut
Sinking, drowning
Eyes closed, heart's not
What has begun?
Already the end
Yours has been sealed
Mine? little left
We are
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Though I know it's difficult
to fall for your professor
Though I know it's impossible
to be more than a student
.
.
.
Al
Though I know it won't happen
no not at all
.
.
.
It's the thrill of it
That keeps me
wanting
to
f
a
l
l.
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Thank you.
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Want it? Do it.
No one else will.
Do it.
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God has a strange sense of humour.
After Chaos and self-destruction,
Tears and heartbreaks,
Uncertainties and sacrifices,
Redemption—
He will set everything into place,
Perfectly,
Beautifully,
And jumble them once more.
"Again," He says.
Just when the boy finally looked at the girl's way.
Just when the girl finally began loving herself and accepting love.
Just when the boy and the girl finally meet, unexpectedly, perfectly, beautifully...
"Again,"
and that's too terrible.
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I think it's coming back.
“I can’t possibly like you. I don't—well, not yet. If you compare it to what I have felt over the course of my ventures, this isn’t worth writing for. Yet here I am. I’m writing about this. I’m writing about the way you make me feel. I’m writing about the way you command the class’ attention. I’m writing about the way you effortlessly express your emotions. I’m writing about the way you and your infinite charms flood the room. I’m writing about the way you firmly held my hand. I’m writing about the way you stared at me. I’m writing about the way you talked to me. I’m writing about the ways… …the ways you made me feel. You can’t possibly like me. You don’t seem as the type of man. Or maybe you are, it’s just clandestinely. If I would list down the times you made me feel special, I wouldn’t remember all of it. My feelings for you aren’t strong enough. Yet it’s enough to light up the whole room. It’s enough to have whole of my eyes and of my ears on you and only you. It’s enough to forget about all the other boys who fail to grasp my attention. It’s enough to be only you.”
— 1 in a million writings. (via whitechurchandinsanity)
The City of Tragic Souls
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So, don't tell me we did it wrong.
He tried to hold on. He had placed a huge amount of effort to keep the key to his locked heart hidden and kept safe with one. He wanted to continue what he had began, what he had grown accustomed to. He didn't do anything wrong.
I tried to aid him in it. Even if there were such feelings, such tension when we're near. Not even our eyes held on for long. Because I know better than to become a catalyst, and then play victim. I didn't do anything wrong.
There weren't no explicit interactions, forbidden codes and secrets—no, nothing.
Perhaps his only mistake was his impatience. And mine was my arrogance.
It's just that, no matter what, lost, tattered, and incomplete souls would want to become whole.
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I find it interesting and quite funny, how certain circumstances shape the way we think, feel, and interact with a stranger. That, if it were the other way around, or any other way apart from what had just been, then we wouldn't feel as much or as less, that we would react much differently, and we wouldn't think of them at all.
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I have this habit
of
looking down
looking up
looking away—
when he catches my eyes,
and I catch his.
For I fear that
my eyes are amplifiers
too intense
too raw
too vulnerable—
that once our eyes lock,
more than a comfortable second,
our souls would crash and ignite, and
he would know right away.
—ispywithmylittleeyeagirlwhodesirestostareattheireyesbutcant
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He says my voice sounds like spoken poetry.
In my mind, he is poetry.
oneofthenicestcomplimentsineverthoughtidbereceiving
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Karma says hi.
Hey you, hello there.
In the circle of life, I'm bound to heaven and hell.
But I've been doused with too much bliss lately—
from dehydrated hearts and broken toys.
I've always known I will atone for the sins of crying boys.
And boy oh boy,
Upon meeting the boy, I'm sure where I'm heading.
I am preparing, conditioning, training myself
For I will not have you
Even if I might end up wanting you.
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So tell me,
How to begin this love story,
When whenever we see each other
We only look at one another
For far greater frequencies
For far longer seconds
than strangers would
But never introduce ourselves to each other
like strangers would
It's as if I know you already
And you know who I am
You look at me a lot.
I noticed.
I look at you too.
Now that I've dedicated a poem to you
I guess this is where You begins
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from and for the underrated, the underdogs.
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There’s something different with him today. Or maybe it’s just me, filtering all his words and actions and his entirety to suit what I’m subconsciously and instinctively imagining and hoping for.
—excerptfromastoryimcurrentlywriting
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