|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
beautiful broken things must stick togetherbecause she is a broken pretty thing,
and he is the little boy who grew up
Let the Fall Make You Stronger."Hey! Are you all right?"
"Sure, why wouldn't I be?"
"Um...because you just fell from the roof of the hou-"
"See, that's where you're wrong. I didn't fall. The floor challenged me and I accepted."
"And how did that go for you?"
"The floor won. But only because it had the advantage."
"Of being non sentient and vast in size, along with the fact that there is a freaking storm out!!"
"Nope. I just attacked from the wrong position."
"I overestimated my skills."
"I'll say. You're bleeding!"
"Only a little. Ask me again."
"If I'm fine."
"Is it because you're bleeding?"
"You're supposed to ask 'Why'."
"God, you're so bloody difficult!"
"But cute. Just ask."
"Because this world we live in, it gives us these dreams, you see. These great big beautiful colourful galaxies in our heads of ideas, thoughts and empathetic conclusions to our fellow humans. Our brain tells us, go on, be curious, make those mistakes.
Before I DieDear World.
I am dying. I can feel every little bit of me disappear slowly, like beautiful bright marbles disappearing into an abyss. They had told me the darkness would consume me. I never thought that I would see myself fall so soon. I had...so many dreams. So many aspirations. I was going to sing, you see, I wanted to make the world smile. I was going to dance with my own Prince Charming. I was going to write books that made the whole world think.
I was supposed to be wonderful. I was supposed to be strong. Instead I am going to die.
I am going to die. Every part of me will perish. My voice will become hoarse. My eyes will lose their sight. My feet will be too tired to move.
But I have something to say. Even if it isn't a book. Or something that would make the world think. It would mean something to the people I love. And they're all I have.
Mom. I'm sorry. You gave me my world. And now I have to return it to you. I never wanted to go before you. I never wanted you to see me this wa
My Name is Hollow.Hello.
My name is Hollow.
I live inside your soul.
Under the layers and layers of skin,
and tissue and muscle...
all the way down where nothing
and everything survives.
(I wish I knew before I trusted you
That lying is second nature to one
with as many regrets as you.)
My name is Hollow.
I live inside you now,
because you gave me the power
in all your virtuous belief
that the world was good
to survive your strength...
(I hoped to God you wouldn't
lie or steal or break what is already
a thousand pieces of a broken soul.)
My name is Hollow.
You let me in when sex
began to feel like an ache.
But the pain felt better than
dealing with the hurt
inside your head, your heart...
(This was always a world for those
that were harder than me
Strength is sometimes a very relative thing.)
My name is Hollow.
I am the jagged lines you draw
all along your skin,
your muscles, your bones...
The sharp edge of a knife,
the scarlet drops of remorse.
(Here's a question now for your
Broken Sleep, Red LipstickI am only an insomniac when it rains. The pitter patter of the raindrops reminds me of the pitter patter of cat paws.
(He liked to sleep at my feet when I could barely think, just to make me feel better. I think you used to tell him to.)
I wish I could wrap your memories around my spine and wear them as a backbone, because they are stronger than the arch my broken spined back seems to have developed of late.
(Spines are oddly brittle, and a lot like wrists. Easy to break and forever to heal.)
But I cannot depend of any of that anymore. So I wear red lipstick and high heels and go to parties and tell strangers how amazing they are to be wearing red lipstick and high heels and how different they must be to come to this party instead of the other one.
(All because you would hate parties and think nightlife is so stupid.)
It is what I do with my insomnia. Because my spineless back, the memories of you incessantly looped in my sleeplessly addled brain and the raindrops
The Girl He LovesThe girl he loves is midnight, like the blue of the sea cradled by the moonlight.
The girl he loves is verdant, the very green of the hill kissed by the summer delight.
The girl he loves is coral, as pink as the roses that grow in his mother's garden.
The girl he loves is crimson, red like the autumn leaves that lay abandoned.
The girl he loves I can never be
Because he's allergic to violets,
And violets are too much like me.
Teaching Summer to BreatheSummer will always remind me of hot, sweltering nights spent drinking sangria, through the dripping fairy lights of your bedroom window. A sticky, starry sky looked back at us, the glow of the moon almost golden in the heat. Fourteen meant we weren't growing up fast enough and a liquor cabinet key seemed to hold the answer to that problem.
You taught me how to drink that night.
(You also showed me how beautiful it was to just hold your breath till your head spins and reality seems like it is going to fade further and further away.)
Six summers ago I met a boy who liked to tell me how much like summer I was. He was big boned and thin skinned and the first time I told him he wasn't mine to keep, he left handprints on my skin that reminded you of a canvas covered in autumn leaves that you saw in New York. Then you proceeded to break every single window in his house (Yes, even the one in the attic he loved so much.)
You taught me how to smile through heartbreak that night.
Forever NeverlandGrace disliked Tinkerbell. She disliked her because she had wings and she could fly whereas Grace stayed on the ground, catching fireflies. The fireflies, in turn, made it easy because they knew she would let them go. She would stare at their radiant light in awe and try to understand how something so little could shine so very bright.
She tried to pretend the bread she had in the mornings was ice cream flavoured, and even imagined her little brother had never been taken from them but had been enthralled and forever lost in Neverland. When she tried to explain this to her mother, her mother would look away quietly, and sometimes, rise with a quiet shudder...and leave the room.
For a little girl who had the hope of the world resting quite easily on her head as a crown, she knew. She knew that one day, he would come for her and maybe, maybe they could be together again like they were in her dreams.
As she grew older, she slept on a bed of green, with a desk of wood and a massive window t
Never Let Him Look South WestThe distance between Dublin and Boston is approximately 3000 miles. You told me this when you were staring south west with the kind of madness I have only seen in sailor’s eyes when they lived in lighthouses too small for their giant ship dreams. It should have worried me, that glint in your eyes. I just dismissed it as one of your navigational tantrums.
When we went to the pub later that evening, you told me I should have the fish and chips, but the way you like it, with more vinegar and no tartar sauce. I said that made it too salty, and you told me that was how real sailors ate their fish. My reactions always were slow to your behavior. I believe the expression ‘at sea’ was applied more often than not when you spoke.
I never thought that the walks you mentioned on the beach when we were children had any more to the idea than the romance of it all. So when you told me you belonged to the sea, I thought you were talking about your soul.
It never truly meant anything
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do
because being okay is expected,
if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,
what can we do to be okay?
we can scribble illegible words
on a canvas made for my painters
masquerading as notebook paper,
and hope that we can sell the burn
of stinging emotions for some paper.
but the funny thing about that thought?
is that american money isn’t paper,
it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.
so even the money you'd earn from your misery,
isn't anything you can write on
when you realize your money isn't
made to heal. even if it does talk.
but it never really ever says enough, does it?
But that's okay...
being okay is the hardest thing we do
because sticks and stones do break bones,
but you can hide the scars
with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.
or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.
words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.
and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,
the way your
I saw thatI saw that.
The way the words
stuck in the back of your throat like glue.
The way you held your tongue
for fear of ridicule if you spoke up for yourself.
The way the syllables gushed from their mouths,
a torrent of excuses,
when they did you wrong
because you didn't make your own case
and you should have been more forceful.
I saw that.
And I've been there, I've lived it.
I know it's hard to let their criticism
roll off your back when
they've already knocked you
flat on your face.
But I saw that.
And I won't let you fight it alone.
Wait For MeWho said it would be easy
Who said it wouldn't be hard
Who said it would be simple
Who said it wouldn't leave scars
What I've got to give you is less than you deserve
But would it make a difference if I promised you the world
Who said it won't be painful
Who said it wouldn't break
Who said it would be perfect
Who said it's a mistake
Words can only say so much before it's hard to breathe
But would you understand me if I said you're all I need
Looking from the outside in
Some things never change
Looking from the inside out
Some things stay the same
I don't know what will happen
When or why or how
I can't see the future
But I can be there for you now
I can't tell you where to go
Because that's up to you
I don't know the road ahead
I can't pretend I do
It's hard for me to say it
And it's harder to believe
But I'll be there beside you
If you will wait for me
...Will you wait for me?
you have seven days to live.1.the news doesn't hurt:
it's his eyes that hurt you,
the glimmer of his past
creeping in just like
his father used to creep in
at three a.m.
with a sin on his mind
and rage on his hands.
he waits for you to react,
but you don't
because he's suddenly seven again,
while mommy cries
in a ball on the couch.
2.you think time
is a funny thing.
people talk about it
like it is an object:
"I need more time," they say,
like they will go to the store later
and buy more.
but you know that time
is more like an ocean wave,
with an endless
pounding that continues
long after we greet the dirt,
and we want more time,
but time doesn't want us.
3.he tries to force you
into his wrists,
his ankles, his collarbone.
he thinks that if he
loves you enough,
he can save you.
you know that he can't,
so you cut through him
night after night,
searching for an exit.
4.sometimes death scares you.
you remind yourself that
no matter how much you want
Alone With ImpulsesI stare at the clock,
Willing myself to feel tired.
It doesn’t work.
I take a sleep aid.
It doesn't work either.
Sitting here alone,
I drown the quiet with music.
I know I have to keep it together.
That doesn't send the depression running though.
Every moment ticks by
With infinite slowness.
My mind presents impulses.
Mild ones first-
Like a snack.
Ever so stealthily,
More psychotic impulses surface.
I know I can’t-
I just feel frightened by my own mind,
And ever so alone.
I Wish Love Wasn't Killing My InsidesI Wish Love Wasn't Killing My Insides
i wish you were here,
i wish you were here,
i wish you were here,
or that i wasn't.
and i wish i knew who
i was talking about but
all of my sorrows
are merging to become my downfall.
and loving you is killing me
but i'd die if i stopped loving you.
i'd die before i stopped loving you.
and i wish that you saw it,
i wish you could feel it.
and i wish you knew that my tears
were burning the back of my eyes
like rubbing alcohol over an open wound,
and i wish you knew there are butterflies
in my stomach, terrified of the fact
you can't write love
on my hummingbird abdomen.
my pigeon ribcage,
much too narrow to protect
me from the arrow that splinters my heart
every time i don't hear a sound.
and nowadays i never hear anything anymore.
and i don't know if i'm going deaf,
have the speakers turned down,
or if you've just stopped altogether.
i just wish you understood
that you not being here
leaves a crater in my chest
where you once stood.
and i wis
i hold my own wrist,
as if it's broken,
'cause there are no hands,
available left to hold it.
to rest in the base
of your touch cannot happen.
it's much too tough to ask.
so i sit staring
into a blank field,
body in reverie,
mind in ennui,
sick of you and i.
i love you
but hate i fell too
deep into the pool,
of what I thought was true.
5 feet, 5 inches,
around my 5'7'' frame,
now left a shell.
my arms hold me,
as i clutch my abdomen,
and rest against the floor.
i lie there,
knowing the pain
will finally stop
that it's just beginning.
because the hardest
part about this,
is loving a ghost
that isn't dead in body,
but in your mind,
and you can't kill her,
no matter how much
you wanna take the gun
and pull the trigger.
so i let pellucid phantoms
perplex the crevices
of my intricate labyrinth.
and i let the apparition
fly around inside,
before it fades and dissipates,
just like the b
Railroad TracksYou draw
on your wrist
But these tracks
you're chugging along on
only put you
on a train
that is zooming
toward a deep,
And at the end of this tunnel,
there is no light.
A Prayer for the Scar Mappedi hope you find someone who loves you for your scars.
your scars are the battles you fought
alone, scared, broken at midnight
navigating the map of your lost soul,
wearing nothing but threadbare dreams,
with demons who would not die,
and who could not rest.
and still strong, you fought on.
i pray you find someone who loves you for your scars
your scars will tell the stories your lips cannot.
your scars will reveal secrets your heart cannot.
your scars will create meaning to the little things you do.
so find someone who loves you for your scars.
this is all that I can pray for, for you
and for you,
and for you...
Keep in Touch!