I always hesitate
before I say your name
the way one hesitates
before telling a secret
For, what are secrets?
They are precious
And so are you.
It has been
And I am afraid to say
It must be longer still.
But I am ever waiting
For the day we meet again.
Can you still taste the rain we shared?
Can you still hear my laugh
Like I hear yours?
And can you still feel -
Do you remember at all
My kiss against your ribs
As I still feel your ribs against my mouth?
My broken, bloodied mouth,
My chapped and sullied lips,
That whisper out your name -
Cut from speaking through razors,
Bruised from the impact
Of a mouth it has yet to feel.
Two weeks becomes
a thousand years -
And just one more
He could never have her – and it was then that he realized just how much he wanted her. And thus he was like a man possessed: thinking of her and fantasizing about things he’d never thought about before, trembling silently in his want of her when he hoped she wasn’t looking. His eyes followed her across the room and his stomach flipped in response to her laughter and when he closed his eyes to sleep he saw her face behind his eyelids. He was sick to his stomach when she wasn’t in the room, and he got Vertigo when she met his gaze. But most of all, and perhaps the most frustrating for him was what surged in his mind, and oozed through his pores and haunted his waking thoughts and his dreams. It was her dream. It was her dream of moaning and panting and heaving chests and rocking hips. And so he saw the curve of her breast in the shadows that fell across the floor at night, and the round moon of her ass in the light streaming in from the hallway. And when he awoke he could still feel her skin under his fingers and imagined that he could still taste her on his lips.
And for the first time in his life he wondered about his dreams. He was the Baku – so what if he had dream issues? Who was supposed to help him?
- Willow, Sidechapters
So I’m in the middle of writing and all of a sudden my brain is like “well gee fuck you.” and all my writing-inspiration and shit just goes poof.
so I think I’m going to go torrent all of Fiona Apple’s stuff because her voice is hella soothing and shit. yep.
Hey folks! Look at this pie chart! How many of us feel the same. That’s why I bring you a little invention I like to call the Porcupine Catapult:
Now you never need prickle your fingers while flinging porcupines at the people you hate!
(No porcupines were harmed in the making of this product. In fact, I rather think they had fun. The same can’t be said for the local High School football team…)
Ways to describe green eyes: Green, emerald, grassy knoll. As in, his eyes are portals to green knolls of tranquility. Making fun of writing in the best way possible. The things we do in the middle of the night…
/dead THIS IS WHY I SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO DO THINGS LIKE POETRY AND MAKING UP DESCRIPTIONS FOR WRITING.
In the first half of the first page, both The Hound of Baskerville and Lord Tennyson are brought up. So I have a feeling this will be a story that is to some latter extent about stories.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME, BLADDER? I WAS WANDERING RESTLESSLY ABOUT THE HOUSE FOR LIKE 20 MINUTES, AND AS SOON AS I SIT DOWN AND SETTLE IN TO WRITE, YOU COMPLAIN? REALLY?
Seriously though, like… Jess has never seen a man’s wang before.
Though she’s barely of age and unwed.
And not a prostitute.
Why do I feel like this is going to lead me into looking at pictures of peen?
DO NOT WANT.
I write. I am a writer. It is engrained into my system to the point that I have my characters constantly running about semi-naked in my head yelling things like “SAUSAGE FEST WITH ICECREAM!” and such. I know every little twist and turn of their minds and even in my writing, most of that doesn’t come across. It’s impossible to completely divulge one person’s mind, it’s impossible to divulge 100’s of them.
“… because when it comes down to it, I’m terrified to stop running while I’m also terrified to take another step. Because the world is changing every moment and what if, in that next step, the world shifts and you’re ripped away from me? What then? Because if I stop for even a single second, what if the world keeps rushing on without me? What then? Would you look for me, though I’d be lost?”