Another year gone,
Another year passed.
Ripped, torn paper,
Sitting like broken birds,
So colorful, so still.
A thousand tears I've cried before,
I've just thrown away all I'm waiting for.
Don't give me a mirror,
Remind me of how broken,
How shattered
Her eyes look.
Remind her
She is never good enough.
A scream,
it flies at he wall.
A million pieces isn't enough.
A million bandaids isn't enough
to stop the bleeding.
A quick kiss,
You hold me tight,
An evil grin,
An empty breath of a word,
"You're mine."
My scowl,
And twist away.
Torn between lives,
Is it me,
Or is it me?
Will had a habit.
When he was thinking, he'd go for a walk. He'd find a bench with a view of my house at the time.
He wouldn't look for me behind the panes of glass. He wouldn't even look at the house.
Will would just wait for me to see him and know he was thinking and go after him.
He could be such a girl sometimes.
He'd sit with his elbows on his knees, his head nearly on his knees, too. His hands would be clasped tight over his head. He'd close his eyes and lose himself.
Will had a few habits.
He wouldn't actually eat for the longest time. My mother invited him to dinner once. We had salad and grilled chicken. Me and my mother were alm
There is a blank canvas up on my wall,
It just hangs there for no neason at all.
There is a painted canvas leaning on the floor.
It just sits there, foreboding, nothing more.
I love how you're never satisfied.
You'll pace the empty floor, hands clasped tight, that secret glimmer in your eyes.
I'm alone now, I stand where you'd stand, no matter what, you were gonna break my heart.
I'm through with healing,
You'll pace the empty floor, eyes clenched shut, the secret glimmer hidden,
No matter what, you were gonna break my heart.
Angry and unsatisfied, you'd watch me, eyes hungry,
Their burning so intense, but I love how you're never satisfied.
Constant Stream Of... by Before-Reasoning, literature
Literature
Constant Stream Of...
When you wake up at 2 in the afternoon to the sound of a hockey game recording and the world's worst migraine, hobble up those damn stairs, and begin to pour yourself a cup of coffee. The pot is empty. You groan, and reach for the coffee creamer and take a swig, grimacing at the sickeningly sweet syrup. You waddle up another set of stairs to the bathroom and turn on the shower as hot as it can go, and just lay down on the bottom of the tub, the hot water dispersing across your flat stomach. You lay there and close your eyes, the steam fogging your already sluggish mind.
You sit up and laugh, realizing this is your life. Your life is a constan
I'm seventeen in November. This marks the day that I have a year until I can move out. I'll move to Canada, maybe the UK, live in a small house. Never get married, never have kids. Unless there's that one man that can turn my thoughts around.
My life is like a run-away train. I have no idea where the hell it's going, or how fast it will be until I get there. I don't know if I'll crash along the way. Instead of sitting around and waiting for it to gain control, I'm gonna hold on for dear life. My life is going to Nowhere, population ME, and I'm happy to be on my way.
My dream home is a small cabin on the edge or a creek or river. One of those
"I didn't know my daughter was such a slut."
I've spun around to face her as fast as I could. The lights on the cieling of the grovery store were suddenly so bright and the heat so intense, I felt like my skin would peel off. The blood was rising in my cheeks.
"What?!"
My own mother calling me a whore. I thought I got enough of that at school I suspected my house was a quiet, shitty place where I could go to get away from conversation all together! My mother would sit and cry for my fatehr to come back on the couch all night and sometimes drink until she fell asleep. Never once cared about my life and how I felt.
I kinda needed her to be
"Whore."
I blink the sleep from my eyes and look up through a haze of mousy brown hair. "Pardon?" I ask. She sneers, the motion distorting her sharp features. She flips perfect red hair off her flawless face and places hands on her hips. I notice her hands and arms aren't marred with brutal pale scars. She purses her lips and nods.
"Mhm. I heard you slept with Colin. Plus, you've dated like, every guy in the school. So I stand by my statement. You. Are. A. WHORE."
Colin? I've never even talked to the guy. All I knew is he was short and chubby and sat beside me in French. And I had not dated every guy. I talked to them and hung out with a coup
Another year gone,
Another year passed.
Ripped, torn paper,
Sitting like broken birds,
So colorful, so still.
A thousand tears I've cried before,
I've just thrown away all I'm waiting for.
Don't give me a mirror,
Remind me of how broken,
How shattered
Her eyes look.
Remind her
She is never good enough.
A scream,
it flies at he wall.
A million pieces isn't enough.
A million bandaids isn't enough
to stop the bleeding.
A quick kiss,
You hold me tight,
An evil grin,
An empty breath of a word,
"You're mine."
My scowl,
And twist away.
Torn between lives,
Is it me,
Or is it me?
Will had a habit.
When he was thinking, he'd go for a walk. He'd find a bench with a view of my house at the time.
He wouldn't look for me behind the panes of glass. He wouldn't even look at the house.
Will would just wait for me to see him and know he was thinking and go after him.
He could be such a girl sometimes.
He'd sit with his elbows on his knees, his head nearly on his knees, too. His hands would be clasped tight over his head. He'd close his eyes and lose himself.
Will had a few habits.
He wouldn't actually eat for the longest time. My mother invited him to dinner once. We had salad and grilled chicken. Me and my mother were alm
There is a blank canvas up on my wall,
It just hangs there for no neason at all.
There is a painted canvas leaning on the floor.
It just sits there, foreboding, nothing more.
I love how you're never satisfied.
You'll pace the empty floor, hands clasped tight, that secret glimmer in your eyes.
I'm alone now, I stand where you'd stand, no matter what, you were gonna break my heart.
I'm through with healing,
You'll pace the empty floor, eyes clenched shut, the secret glimmer hidden,
No matter what, you were gonna break my heart.
Angry and unsatisfied, you'd watch me, eyes hungry,
Their burning so intense, but I love how you're never satisfied.
Constant Stream Of... by Before-Reasoning, literature
Literature
Constant Stream Of...
When you wake up at 2 in the afternoon to the sound of a hockey game recording and the world's worst migraine, hobble up those damn stairs, and begin to pour yourself a cup of coffee. The pot is empty. You groan, and reach for the coffee creamer and take a swig, grimacing at the sickeningly sweet syrup. You waddle up another set of stairs to the bathroom and turn on the shower as hot as it can go, and just lay down on the bottom of the tub, the hot water dispersing across your flat stomach. You lay there and close your eyes, the steam fogging your already sluggish mind.
You sit up and laugh, realizing this is your life. Your life is a constan
I'm seventeen in November. This marks the day that I have a year until I can move out. I'll move to Canada, maybe the UK, live in a small house. Never get married, never have kids. Unless there's that one man that can turn my thoughts around.
My life is like a run-away train. I have no idea where the hell it's going, or how fast it will be until I get there. I don't know if I'll crash along the way. Instead of sitting around and waiting for it to gain control, I'm gonna hold on for dear life. My life is going to Nowhere, population ME, and I'm happy to be on my way.
My dream home is a small cabin on the edge or a creek or river. One of those
"I didn't know my daughter was such a slut."
I've spun around to face her as fast as I could. The lights on the cieling of the grovery store were suddenly so bright and the heat so intense, I felt like my skin would peel off. The blood was rising in my cheeks.
"What?!"
My own mother calling me a whore. I thought I got enough of that at school I suspected my house was a quiet, shitty place where I could go to get away from conversation all together! My mother would sit and cry for my fatehr to come back on the couch all night and sometimes drink until she fell asleep. Never once cared about my life and how I felt.
I kinda needed her to be
"Whore."
I blink the sleep from my eyes and look up through a haze of mousy brown hair. "Pardon?" I ask. She sneers, the motion distorting her sharp features. She flips perfect red hair off her flawless face and places hands on her hips. I notice her hands and arms aren't marred with brutal pale scars. She purses her lips and nods.
"Mhm. I heard you slept with Colin. Plus, you've dated like, every guy in the school. So I stand by my statement. You. Are. A. WHORE."
Colin? I've never even talked to the guy. All I knew is he was short and chubby and sat beside me in French. And I had not dated every guy. I talked to them and hung out with a coup
I went to her page and started to cry.
I know she's better than me, I just want to know why.
She's funny and cute, and I can see
That she is already way better than me.
He likes her, but still stays with me,
Says "I love you," but I'm not sure I believe.
He'll be with her this Saturday,
Will it always be this way?
Why do I feel threatened and jealous?
So, I'm bck after a suicide attempt and extreme weight-loss. Back up to 95 poundsm on some pills, so I'm better.
(: And married.
I got married on Wednesday. So, now I'm Mrs. Ariadne Collins.
I don't think I'll be on much as more?
I haven't been very productive. Maybe it's becase... I dunno. So, I'll take requests for writing? Nothing too stupid.
ART TRADE, ANYONE?
Features :heart: :
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