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jugendliche.i.) die Bekennende
Du bist meine Liebe, meine Engel in der Nacht.
Die Sonne scheint so hell fuer uns, du kuesst mich und sagt,
"Kannst du bitte halt mein Hand?"
Ich kuesse dich, weil ich weiss ich kann.
Ich hoffe, du weisst, du bist wirklich schoen.
Alles, ich kann sagen ist "ich brauche dich so gern."
Meine Liebe fuer dich ist sehr gross, ich bitte zu sein.
Immer Ihren Liebling, damit du mein sein.
ii.) die Sehnsucht
Sie ist so viel staerker als ich.
Sie leuchtet den Raum und ich fuehle mich
Als wuerde ich tiefer fallen in der Liebe.
Ich denke, das sind Liebhaber oder Taschendiebe?
Aber sie ist so anders, so perfekt und Art ist.
Es scheint, sie fühlt sich nicht Zwist.
Ich will nur ihre Hand zu Halten,
Aber das ist nicht etwas, was ich ganz einfach verwalten.
Sie hat eine andere, obwohl sie liebt mich mehr
Und ich weiss, ich liebe sie ebensosehr.
A Little Bit Like Crazy: Chapter 4.1chapter four
“is astrid your girlfriend?” keillan asked me unexpectedly at our breakfast. i nearly choked on my chocolate milk.
“what the heck, kiddo?” i tried to laugh but it just came out really uncomfortable sounding. “of course she isn’t.”
“well, was she?” his insight never ceased to amaze me. his eyes were large and intent, as if he’d thought about this for a long time.
“what even would make you think that, keillan?” i appeared composed. it was still way too soon for me to answer questions about astrid. “you’ve known me your whole life. that’s the most peculiar thing to ever come out of your mouth.” i was avoiding eye contact. keillan’s got this way of making you feel totally at ease with even the most uncomfortable of topics. i guess it’s a good trait to have.
“okay, you guys are always talking about
A Little Bit Like Crazy: Chapter 3.1Chapter Three
The only person that was at home when I arrived back was my sister Brinley, a spoiled fifteen-year-old with a penchant for making my life miserable. She was lying on the sofa Daisy Buchanan-style, sprawled lazily reading a fashion magazine.
“You’re home late,” she grumbled, not even having the decency to lift her eyes from the gossip column. “How was your drunken rave last night?” Her words were dripping with sarcasm, a smirk on her lips. She genuinely repulsed me.
“You didn’t,” I spat gruffly in her direction, wide-eyes full of anger. “You did not see anything.” I was terrified, not that she had seen, but that she had shown our parents.
“Au contraire, my dear sister,” she chuckled nonchalantly. “I especially liked the one of you smashing a beer bottle into Mrs. McCartney’s heirloom china vase.”
“Brin, you wouldn’t dare,
fresh.don't look at me.
every time you do i see her.
you look just like her, but
shorter thinner sweeter
younger. you are so much younger.
you're nowhere near as naive.
innocent is not in your expansive
vocabulary. your voice is both
agonizing and intoxicating.
we used to lie next to each
other, hold hands and harmonize.
you held me when i cried
and laughed at my cheesy jokes.
now you have gone. you don't
even speak to me, no choral context.
but you look at me. and you smile.
and you make me feel so fresh,
don't ever leave my side.
a memoir of a butterfly.her memory is like a dead mockingbird.
something so beautiful, but remnants
scatter in the wind, unable to
comprehend whether it was deserved
perishing or a mistake.
will you remember in twenty
years, or twenty months, twenty
goddamn seconds, or will she
fade like the fluttering feathers
of the bird shot down in anguish?
can you kiss yourself goodnight
because her butterflies will never
again land on your fleshy lips?
laugh to keep from crying, cry
to keep for being numb,
pretending her presence was
that of a ghost inside a dream.
cover your wrists in gauze and
guilt to prevent moral infection,
feign disinterest when she bites
her lips, don't crave to be the
one biting back, because you'll
only be chewing yourself out.
don't look directly at her, she
is a sapphic eclipse, tease
me with your sloping neck,
tease me with your impeccable
jawline, hazel eyes and
crooked nose, a sweet breathiness
achieved by her trembling,
raspy alto, how i want to
press my mouth to hers and utter
the cure for romantic epilepsy is you.lighthearted heartthrobs
leave me tenderhearted for
the moment, callously discarded
when the brokenhearted relapses
occur and my heartache is just
a simple subtraction amongst
the breakage and blood pumping.
can you heal me? can you heal you?
do you know how to divide me
into the good, the bad, and the
parts that get too clingy?
can you tell me what it is
that keeps you clinging?
your body is like a metronome,
and i just want to move
to your tempo, you envelope
me with your beautiful
lyricism and lips like a rose.
hands hold like roping soliloquies
of the what-ifs and what-nows,
they're clenching like we're
on a roller coaster and i just
want to hold on to you, if
i could kiss you would i be
considered lucky or a casualty?
i want to peruse the inky pages
of your loitered soul, picking
up the pieces because something
as beautiful as you doesn't
deserve to be littered.
all i want you to do is stand
near me, not even next to me,
because the glow of your glower
is gorgeous even in your mos
drowned.this ice is getting thinner
and i keep feeling like i'm
about to fall through. i just
wanted you to envelope me in
your harmony, sweet kisses
making the syncopation
between broken glass and
heart pieces, shattered
with lips uttering breathlessly.
i wanted to be warmed by
the sound of your melodies,
you told me of my beauties
and i believed you, remember
that my soul is fragile and
that suicide and silence
start and end the same way.
keep in mind when you told
me how much you cared and
how much i hope you realized
at this point the water is
freezing and i can't swim.
love like remission.everybody says that
i'm a specific type. i
think that's just an
excuse to say there's
really no chance i can
ever be loved. keep saying
that i'm beautiful, keep
saying that i'm good.
do you really think i
believe any of that? i'm
trying to turn a new
page, cleanse the wounds
she caused me, and now
i don't know which way
to turn because neither
path is paved for me and
neither door is open. i
wish i could say it was
easy but i can feel it
coming back, steadily like
a creeping animal ready
to pounce on my freshly-
healed heart and soul.
everyone says i have a type.
i believe that in a
heartbeat because each
heart that beats next to
mine is sweet in the melody.
i don't have my choice of
the picking but i can
pretend to be free of this
illness, relapsing on
romanticism and using stoicism
as a crutch, this wall i
put up can be broken down
by whoever's love is strong
enough. someone, take my hand
and lead me through the disease.
your namethree months from now, i'll look back on this and think
"i can't believe i ever wrote your name on my desk."
but until then, i'll keep scratching it in,
over and over,
until it makes a dent,
in my heart.
018. LovePaper planes
onto my desk
from across the room.
to a smiling face
that blooms like flowers.
You can call it chemistry,
but I'd like to call it love.
The Mutual ExchangeHer body was like stone,
Her heart like ice,
Yet She oozed a sticky red warmth.
His body was like ice,
His heart; an untamed flame,
Yet no one noticed how brightly He shone.
When He crossed Her path, all She could see was His light;
Guiding Her through Her day.
When She crossed His path, all He could feel was Her frost;
Cooling the blaze inside.
When their hands brushed, nothing else mattered
Accept the mutual exchange of energy between
Heat and Cold.
Brown Eyes Aren't BoringThe cigarette fog is clearing out
And all I see are unhappy people
So many unhappy people.
This weight is pulling me down.
Rest my head.
Baby all I see are those brown eyes.
Twinkling in this sunlight.
I never seen such beautiful eyes.
Break the Mold09-12-14
Break the mold,
I want to be told,
"I'll be the one that you'll hold,"
For I no longer want to be cold...
Mermaid's Monologue For LoveI'm floating over where I should be standing
Fins are what I have, no feet for demanding
I dream about being touched upon my shoulders
As you let me know you are there
Why do I dream of love at such a young age?
Blush marks appear on my face
As I daydream about what you would provide for me
Embracing myself with arms crossing my waist
If only I could have a taste
Of the possible good things you may offer
For our relationship~
My hair tosses about in the oceans waves
The wind the earth would receive is different
Underneath the dirt and trees
My brown eyes filled with enthusiastic hope
My heart beats as if you've already arrived
Yet that is not so unto my eyes
As I hug myself, I picture you near me
My eyes close for sleepiness and wanting you
Wanting my love near my side
Before the Earth collects the ocean's tide
Blush marks redden more than usual
I open my eyes as I gaze at the moon
Before I drift off to sleep
To ease my high school conscience
Are you there to kiss my troubles each
Love with TimeIf love is not shown, is it lost forever and never to be obtained again?
Or does it remain with the one that you loved for all eternity and possibly be returned to you by the one you loved?
The only thing that has the answer is Time.
So forever there will always be hope for Love.
The Dirk To My RoxyHis name is-
Well, that's not what matters.
It's his heart,
which, yeah it's hard to see - with the robotic way he speaks
and his seemingly careless nature,
but it's there.
His heart is the terrain I trek on in my wistful dreams,
and I can only hope
I leave my mark.
The land of his soul
strains for another person;
can't you see me?
Can't you love me?
It's too much
to expect him to change his entire being,
his entire soul,
just for my own pleasure.
I want him badly, and
I don't know if this is just lust or
a harmless infatuation,
but I want him to love me.
We talk daily, about many things,
I thought he was heartless but it turns out I was
I'm the heartless one here.
So I'll keep waiting,
cause he's a Prince and I'm a rogue.
Why can't his heart be mine?
Why can't I appearify it from nothingness,
from this void,
and feel it with my own two hands,
imprinting on it eternally?
I can't help ho
Things No One Else Notices Are What I Love MostI love your eyes,
dark and focused
when you’re concentrating
on whatever it is
And your smile
That looks so silly sometimes
when you’re waiting
for a kiss
and how you get annoyed
when I just want to be close
and hold hands
and that’s all
I’m amused by
the way you sound
when I’ve surprised you
by saying something I shouldn’t have
or before you leave,
when I kiss your nose
and you don’t think it’s as cute
as I think it is,
but I can tell
that you probably still love it.
it feels like everything's caving in on my spirit.used
is a word with multiple meanings.
it can mean
all the life sucked out of you.
it can mean
you've wasted away from so much
pressure, a hand you weren't given.
it can mean
you take a giant leap of faith
only to fall to your icy plunge,
into the splash you go.
i don't lke being used.
it's not fun.
you think for so long,
look, this will finally happen
and then it does
when you least expect,
and you feel like shit afterwards.
because you know you're
you know it and
you don't fight it.
i'm not pitying myself,
i'm pitying the girls that deal
with this same problem,
we take what we get
and sometimes what we get
isn't what we want.
maybe it is in some senses,
but after it's all said and done,
it's not what it was
supposed to feel like.
it's almost as if all the
air has been drained from
my lungs, heaving, i'm frightened
by how this thing has been
ruined, bursted to pieces, blown
to smithereens, broken.
but is it?
or are you just pretending it is
so you don't have to deal with
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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