My Writings

My writings, my mind, my heart all laid out here for your enjoyment.

[thegoodvybe]

[beatific-sadness]

[thegoodvybe]

[sunsetquotes]

“I can’t exactly describe how I feel but it’s not quite right. And it leaves me cold.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

[relatablepoetryandquotes]

“She was so tired of being strong.” - Kristin Hannah, The Nightingale (via the-book-diaries)

[relatablepoetryandquotes]

“The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.” - Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (via the-book-diaries)

[relatablepoetryandquotes]

“The heart makes its choices without weighing the consequences. It doesn’t look ahead to the lonely nights that follow.” - Tess Gerritsen (via quotemadness)

via @quotemadness

[relatablepoetryandquotes]

“I am infinitely strange to myself.” - John Fowles, The French Lieutenant’s Woman (via the-book-diaries)

[thegoodvybe]

[the-writer1298]

The day starts not the best

It started hours ago

The tequila stings the air

Tired eyes looking

It forces awake another pair.

The pillow talks in the morning don’t compare to the pillow talks of the night.

Bondage.

Sex.

Lost loves.

Forbidden words.

Those talks are open, freeing.

Pancake batter and uncooked sausage now stings the air.

A mundane beginning to an abnormal day

Table set with the plainest of china

Forks and knives only.

The talks of the night took on a new light

This light came from the sun

And the morning air truly piercing.

It’s open and alive but the fog of the day shows in the fog of the mind.

Retreating in the den

Closed blinds closed out the light and the fog.

Words are uttered in broken sentences

Highlights embarrassments and past failures.

It’s the same pillow talk but more playful,

Innocence.

Best friends have bonds.

Best friends have secrets.

Their syntax manifests in ways only they can understand.

But each word provides another outlet of hidden shame

But also an outlet to look in.

There’s an indent still on the pillow the tired eyes watched.

The blankets are skewed,

Toilet paper in the sheets,

It signals a rough night.

Thrashing heads meet thrashing bowels

Movement kept to a minimum.

Vomiting.

Puke stings the air,

No one is home to see.

Thank God no one is home to see.

There is a torrent of shame.

Guilt feels heavy and sinks in deep.

It doesn’t sink in like a knife,

It sinks in like a rough stone.

The stone still scars

But the importance comes with the weight.

This groggy shame meets the compassion of another.

That other is one that causing another torrent.

This torrent can only be described as wanting.

Wanting the skin to meld.

Wanting the conversations to not stop.

Wanting the limbs entangle and snare as they do best.

Compassion brings coffee and a sweet fix

Compassion brings self and others together

Compassion kisses

And holds

And gently,

Ever so gently,

Press fingers across another.

An eternity passes and those fingers trace the palm and clutch groggy shame.

Memories of a past life comes like an intruder.

Much of today was spent meditating on some aspect of the past.

The pillow talks were gentle,

But the inner workings of the head are not so gracious.

It was a feeling remembered than an actual time.

Soft lips bracing against skin.

They worked their ways down

Knees lost feeling.

In a way the only thing that needs to be done is to take compassion by the neck and passionately kiss until everything becomes clear.

If the company of others were lacking

Compassion would have met passion.

And passion would have destroyed.

Silent shame and guilty mind.

Passed secrets between friends,

There’s a sickness that manifests in the stomach

Blame last night.

Don’t blame how you feel.

Blame the tequila.

Blame the juice.

Don’t blame the forwardness.

Don’t blame the blundered words

And fowl words.

Lie in bed and think.

Imagine what compassions lips feel like,

Though they have been felt before.

Imagine the rock on the pit of the stomach be gone.

Imagine the words of others and moments of desperate wanting worked.

This day is long.

This day is tired.

Three hours of sleep is never enough.

Eyes wide open

And head full of tragic ideals.

Try not to throw up.

[the-writer1298]

stop saying an anxiety is valid just because its mine.

[juansendizon]

“Those who don’t believe in soulmates have always found love within them.”

— Juansen Dizon

[relatablepoetryandquotes]

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.” - David Foster Wallace (via quotemadness)

via @quotemadness

[the-writer1298]

[the-writer1298]

i adore our juxtaposition. In this white room every piece seems to be outlines. Eyes pull, we must look strange. Her head stooping, focused heavily on a work so cleverly crafted. her stooping and these seats hide our height differences. She nearly a foot taller than me, slender, skin tanned by generations of heritage. her hair is curled like mine, but they don’t hold the same bounce, and her curls are golden near the ends but the roots are brown. Not as dark of a brown as mine. 

it’s strange though. I feel as though she is observing me as much as I’m observing her. Maybe she doesn’t notice me, or maybe the moments I look down at my screen is the same moment she glances up at me. 

she drinks tea, it’s mint and cool though hot. My coffee feels like liquid gold going down my throat. the glare on my glasses hides my observing eyes. my clothing contrasts my pale skin with its dark hues. My eyes match my coffee, and her eyes match the grey clouds outside this building. 

her words are so delicate. As I type this I can already feel my throat crack and my head thrash. My fingers shake, my procrastination has taken a turn in admiring a girl. 

I hope I never go back. 

[the-writer1298]

the normal classroom setup requires desks to be placed in, mostly, neatly done rows, to help each student be able to see and so the instructor can keep their eyes on all of them. But some classes take a liberal stance on desk placement and decide to put the desks into a large ellipses. Now each student can see their peers faces, look at them directly in the eyes. For a student who enjoys to merely observe this is heavenly but also damning. They are not alone in the shadows observing, they are also being observed. 

It can be freeing, to not just live in the background but also exist in the viewpoint of those that she desperately desires to be known to. Especially him. 

there’s a person like him in everyones life. That significant person seen twice a week and yet never talked to. somehow, somewhere there’s a feeling that person might feel the same. That this all isn’t just in their head. Those glances stolen and breathes wavered, all come together like some grand dance. At the end of that dance there is a choice to be made and that choice is whether to walk away or simply embrace, but the song beats on. 

He walks in and she stares at him subtly through circular glasses. her observations are hidden behind quick checks of the writings she had done for class. When the teacher stands to begin the hour and a half long droll of comfortable, and mostly wrong, analysis of literature, the class begins to drift off and stare at things other than the writings. And she stares at him for a little while but ultimately her eyes rest on her paper where she calmly doodles to avoid the teachers piercing and questioning gaze. 

the text is about the emotions and what their expression is. He seems very interested in the text, always making intellectual comments about whatever piece the class reads-- she loves it. Usually his comments would allow enough courage to come to her to at least counter, and suddenly their dance would become verbal as they would entertain the class in thought-provoking literary banter. It only ended with the teacher changing the subject entirely, and their old comfortable silence helped the tempo of their dance reduce. 

today she didn’t feel the fight, and he seemed to be interested but not enough to talk about it. the droll continued through a humming silence in the room. The humming from the air conditioner held a certain beat, matched with the beat of the marker in the teachers hand against the white board. 

somehow a word was uttered, that totally cliche word that stops people from talking or sometimes feel. the word love was uttered by the teacher. 

instincts caused him to look at her and she at him. it was so mundane and innocent. It felt as though the song to their dance suddenly stopped and the two dancers are left just staring at each other trying to figure out how to make that choice. the thought plagues the head, when will that song start again or should it finally just stop.

reality steals in like a cruel mistress to fantasy, and they both look away. The dance paused until he murmurs a comment against the text and she follows his steps beginning their dance again. 

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“You loved me enough to respect my sadness, my silence,”

— Colette, from The Complete Claudine Series; “Claudine Getting Married,”