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I can see how, in life, being a controlled analytical man would be beneficial. I am quite sure the reserved and restricted man is an easier route to pursue.. How he would think the wisest move is to be a man who’s self governance protects him from indulgent pleasure and his heart from softening and
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sans explanation. I will not fault themfor their lack of understandingthis love confuses even meand I am chest deep in itbut I refuse to waste my wordsto defend or definehow we fell in without touchhow we wade through it togetherhow we have made our offeringsand thanked our Gods for this oceanin hopes that they will
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to be found. I went to those mountains to find words for these pages. I have filled the others with lust, longing and failed love. I have covered them with sorrow and grief. I was expecting more of this. But instead I only wrote about you. You. Three letters that capture so much. A word
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• I left him there in unanswered .. Just as they had done to me many times before. Every promise I didn’t make was already broken. And every one he needed was weighed down with misplaced love. All he did was try to show me that it could be gentle too. That it could be
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Because of my self-worth or I suppose my perception of my lack thereof, I’ve always had this very unique idea of what love is supposed to look like. What I mean to say is that I thought I did not deserve a love that replenished me, one that filled by cup. I sought fulfillment in
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I can’t write like you. It’s not that I don’t want to. Sometimes I read your work and I think how creative, how pleasing. How safe. But I can’t do that. I can’t do that because I write from my soul. And when you go that deep it’s messy. There are bones strewn about. The
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i wish you knew how hard it is to hold backbut fear tells me over and over againbe still and be quietfor you know the hurt that awaits youit is all too familiarand this alone is enough to keep your words withinbut you do not knowwhat lies are givenwhat secrets are burningwhat monsters are hidden..
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immortal. writers, poets especially, are such peculiar creatures..we can love you for a mere moment after knowing you for barely any time at alland then if struck in a particular waywe endeavor to fill a novel of pages about the almost of what we might’ve hadromantic realistsanticipating that it could not lastinstead we build a
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do you ever think of how it feltthose few days whenyou chose me over sleep?just one more momentand then anotherand so onuntil we had almost gone too faruntil you almost chose me the blood& the bones
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I am the door never fully openedThe window halfway shutThe brand new suit that they bought to wearBut she never showed upI am the book that they start and never finishThe keeper never keptThe tears brimming in their eyesThat they never weptI am the plant they neglect to waterThe last drag of a cigaretteThe pillow
The Blood & The Bones 