#and drive

[weepingangellll]

im fast to get away, far.

[ourstarman]

Badlands by Halsey is just so rosekiller coded

[treerootstalks]

"I have the strength, passion, and drive of three people now"

oh i didnt realize i would be crying watching the olympics

[awomanundertheinfluence45]

[thetaoofbetty]

this new breed of b/a in our inboxes like

[titlishu]

i wish i was old enough to drive

like if i feel like i need a break, ill just go to my car/scooty and drive around, maybe go near the beach and feel the breeze, see all the lights on in houses, see the clouds pass by

like that would be my bliss

[crack--attack]

for once this didn’t help

jackie wrote on the road in twenty days

fuck

fuck

imagine that

imagine sitting down to a typewriter with an endless scroll of paper

(actually sheets taped together, one by one by one by one by—)

and writing about your life

and making a novel.

i can’t

i can’t

what have i even done this year?

(i’m not even 22 and i’m having a midlife crisis)

99% of the time i love this

sitting down to love and softness

living gently

growing flowers and drinking tea and reading old books.

on my lunch breaks at work

i eat a granola bar and read a book.

right now it’s the things they carried.

when i finish that, who knows?

i devour book and book and book.

i whisper soft things to my plants,

i wear soft oversized sweaters,

i run sometimes for the thrill.

and I’m fine with that,

i love the softness, the gentle.

but every so often

that one percent gets me

my soul vibrates in my veins

and i will it to stop to stop just fucking stop

but it tells me i must do something insane

something crazy

something to prove i’m alive and i can and will still put up a fight

do something crazy

something CRAZY

and do it now, quick, while your hands are still shaking and your breath is still ragged.

and these words are screaming behind my skin and aching to get out

so i open my laptop and type them but what does that help? this isn’t crazy, this is just me

and usually they calm down, they’re content with being freed but not this time

and for once dyeing or cutting my hair won’t fix it,

getting a tattoo won’t fix it,

vomiting up old words won’t fix it.

i need to do something worth writing about for twenty days straight

and then i’ll be okay

for a year

maybe two

and then the words will be back

and i’ll start all over again.

so let me board a stage

and scream my poetry for people

let me be heard to the ends of the earth.

i don’t give a shit who covers their ears

i am a caged animal of some sort but that’s too pretentious.

i’m nothing special.

so i will scream mediocre words until my throat is hoarse

and then maybe i’ll be able to sleep again.

please god, let me sleep again.