Only write a story that only you can write.
Love is hard to find, hard to keep, and hard to forget.
Sleep did not honor me with it’s presence.
I was not weak; I did not cry. But it hurt me, more in a kind of refreshing, thrilling way, than a kind of pain that would cripple me and send me away crying. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands, and my teeth bit into my lips, my knees were locked, but I could not faint.
You never really know what’s coming. A small wave, or maybe a big one. All you can really do is hope that when it comes, you can surf over it, instead of drown in its monstrosity.
Life is hell, at some point we all just have to get used to it.
Never be afraid to be sexy!
There is pain in these eyes that you don’t see. There is hurt in this heart that’s killing me.
There was something behind the softness that intertwined our fingers together – love? It felt different from two days ago. All I could think about was his smooth hand, wrapped in mine. It was more than affection – but I wasn’t sure how much more, or if that would ever change.
When I said “I love you” I meant forever. If I said “I hate you” I meant never.
Time to go run the calories away, do away with all the numbers stalking you, throw out the bad habits and excess weight.
The truth doesn’t mind being told every once in a while.
He leaned down and kissed my forehead. The soft melody of his lips was calming. I closed my eyes. I could smell his human skin, his human breath, his human hair, and for the first time, I would give anything to be human too.
When a poet settled down to write a poem, could he foresee the lines he would write? Did his head constantly spin with riddles and rhymes and was his only job to put them down? What if he couldn’t get them to make sense, and no one, not even the person he cared for most, could have pleasure in reading it? What would he do?