my first letter’s in home, but missing in you
my second’s in four, but absent in two
my third is in dark, but lacking in light
my fourth is in recklessness, but is sadly lost in might
my fifth is in life, but vacant in the end
my sixth is in the cracked, but not found in the mend
my seventh’s in my arm, but astray in the bone
my eighth is in my neighbourhood, but never in my home
my ninth is in my memories, but unseen in the optics
always in my head, where, together, we finally exist

thefifthjohn:

Sometimes you get it,

Sometimes you don’t.

But hell, is it good.

Sometimes you get it,

Sometimes you don’t.

But hell, it is good.

-jco’cv

thedustdancestoo:

and this is why the sky never ends,
and valentines flowers last only a week
before rotting and

why we step in puddles
with new shoes on and why
the only memories we can remember 

are the ones that make us sick
inside, and why so many people fuck,
but never love, and this is why

late at night, beneath the covers
as the light bulbs cool off, i feel nothing
in my soul except the ceiling fan. 

(Source: thedustdancestoo)

hurricanefulfilment:

boom boom

bang bang

lie down

you’re dead

hurricanefulfilment:

did they get you to trade your

heroes for ghosts?

hot ashes for trees?

hot air for a cool breeze?

oh how i wish

you were here

we’re just two lost souls

swimming in a fish bowl

year after year

running over the same old ground

what have you found?

the same old fears

wish you were here

hurricanefulfilment:

i nearly died today

my horse flipped over going down a hill too fast

under my fingers, i pick at the thread that holds the leather together. it sticks to the skin under my thighs and i have to try not to cringe, because she will pick up on that. i can feel her eyes on me, infinitely human and perpetually hardwired on severing every flaw she can see on me, like a scalpel. scalpel eyes, she’s got. the clock ticks somewhere in the background. i count every snap of the second hand. i’m up to two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-one. needless to say, i haven’t been focusing on any word that has come out from her mouth, laden with sharp teeth that bite into the secretive depths of my skin.
the couch is grainy, and the stitching digs into the back of my legs, as i sit completely still because it might hurt to move. it smells clean, in here, like a supermarket plug in that is set to a specific time. i wrinkle my nose and go back to plucking at the string, hopefully i will unravel this leather couch and i will fall away out of this place with this scalpel woman and her sticky chair, her supermarket plug in and the teasing clock behind me.

She lives for music. Unlike the people in her life, it is something that had yet to leave her. She defines herself by her music. If the day comes that her music ceases to exist (she doesn’t ponder this too much, it’s rather painful), then so will she. In her dingy little apartment, the shadows in the corners of the rooms and the creaking inside her head are whisked away by guitars and lead vocals.
She’s got problems, she can freely admit. Problems that infest underneath her skin and congregate in her nerves and her bloodstream. Problems you cannot see with your naked eye, even if you stripped her down and pulled her bones apart on a stainless steel slab.
Somewhere in her bedroom, her CD is spinning, more faithful than any lover she has encountered, more beautiful than any sunrise she has witnessed when her eyes refuse to close. It is well-worn, like her favourite pair of Chucks, but still runs, powered by her desperate need for it to accompany her through her excruciating existence.
Somewhere in her bathroom, she is huddled in the corner. The paranoid chair, it’s been referred to by many doctors, so she can see everything and nothing can catch her off guard.
But the day has come.
The course of the day/night (she tends to lose track due to her chronic insomnia) sees the CD, her most prized possession, the one thing that has never let her down, broken on the bathroom floor.
On a long enough timeline, the villain steals the day.
The CD has long since stopped spinning.
And so has she.

you have this weird tendency

flighty as hell, aren’t you?

i hope you don’t find me too patronising

sweetie

rushing into things you don’t know if you can handle

headstrong wee thing

it’s okay to take it slow

just as well you know how to get your legs out of the way

you have this strange little habit

of taking me along for the ride

whether i like it or not

ONCE I WAS…

a child

it was great

but it’s way too early in the morning

to write about it

the water’s fine, he said

fingers interlaced as it swallows us whole

slowly

slowly

slowly

starting from our toes

you don’t feel it at first

but he just smiled

and it’s quite pretty

so i smile too

i’ll always remember his last words