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your words that day hit me like a knife piercing through my heart,
my heart shattered into a million pieces that moment you told me those words...now i am devasted for the rest of my days...
I despise what you do to me, and how you rip my heart apart piece by piece.
Sitting there, you watch me bleed eternally ,and yet I keep coming back for more. I feel the pain at my very core.
Is it the nostalgia, loneliness or your embrace I crave? Like poison, you slowly kill me from the inside out little by little. Is this what a familar taste of poison is? I've cried countless tears in your name and sake for what seems like an eternity. Wallowing in Agony and self-pity I continue to call out for you. Why is it that I keep coming back for more?
Someone please help me to let it all go, and pick of the shattered pieces of my soul you left in your wake. Will I ever be saved?
I feel the pain, and I see you there. Longing for you kills me still, and I continue telling myself that you are no good for me. After all this time, I still cannot let it go, and move on as it silently kills me like a thief in the night. Craving your embrace, though I will never see you again except in my dreams and shattered memories of excruciating agony. Everytime I think of you, continues to pulse, even after all the scars you left on my soul. One day I pray to find solace. When will I be able to let it all go, and move on?
Loneliness means to withstand every hardship and tribulation that life throws your way.
Also meaning no one is there to help lift you up when fallen to the lowest point.
It means to never to feel eternal bliss or even share a simple laugh with someone you care for. I wish I could purge it all away, and numb the anguish of my soul. Being alone also means that your heart can never be broken to the point of being shattered before your very eyes. Still you haunt me after all this time with your visage and memories. When will it all go away?
The girl gazes at the beautiful, thin girls of the media longing to look like that.
she repeatly tells herself she's worthless and hideous. Feeling even worse, she decides she will do whatever is necessary to fit society's definition of "beautiful". She grows weaker day by day, and yet still sees herself outrageously overweight. As the days go by, her heartbeat and organ systems begin to shutdown from lack of nutrition. Still in the mirror she sees a monster and begins to purge herself of all this pain. One day, she finally looks how she wanted, when she's lying motionless on the floor.
How to be a better writer!How to be a better writer, or
Even a better artist.
“Trust me”, I have experience,
I’ve been at it for years.
Let me give you a few simple guidelines,
Some that I myself go off of,
And I’ll pretend that my style,
Choice of words, will work for everyone else.
And let’s not forget to mention that
I am a premium member! A beta tester!
A senior member!
Till hell freezes over!
I must know what I’m talking about?
In all my greatness and glory!
I have the authority,
To tell others how to make their art better.
Let’s cut the bullshit here and now,
And ignore those people who tell us our style.
One person, so skilled and great,
With art that all tend to appreciate,
Does not have the right to lead ‘his’ flock,
To determine whose art is worthy or not.
You write one way I write another,
My thoughts are calm, while yours are loud as thunder.
She strokes left, but he’ll stroke right,
Her art his peaceful, but his depicts a fight.
A pencil i
Avoidant Personality DisorderI've never gotten to explain this to anyone before, since every time I try, I break into some sort of sobbing fit. If my explanation sounds a little funky, that may be why.
Yeah. So, I have APD, or Avoidant Personality Disorder.
To summarize, it's a disorder that makes people want to avoid social contact and criticism by all means.
Unfortunately, that includes me.
I didn't know about the disorder until I browsed through psychological disorders for writing purposes, and happened to find it. I matched every single symptom.
Every last one, period. And I believe, wholeheartedly, that I have it.
This isn't your WebMD diagnosis, not when you feel so badly.
It's a really difficult feeling to describe.
Whenever you so much as try to make conversation with any person, you feel like chopping your head off. In my case, you're afraid to say hello. Or goodbye, or thank you, or I love you, or things that people should be able to say without stopping to think.
You feel unworthy o
A Rapist Wears PinkA rapist can wear lipstick, make up, dresses or skirts,
Her nails can be painted brightly, her eyes can still harbor hurt.
A rapist can walk with heels, that click as she drags her feet,
A rapist can have a feminine voice, that comes pouring from her vile teeth.
A rapist can be a woman, that much should be clear,
Yet a few ignorant people, will choose not to adhere.
A rapist can pick her victim, as easily as the next,
She can claim she’s just lost or stranded, then force you into sex.
A rapist can cry wolf, as long as she cries feminist first,
A rapist can ruin your life style, make day to day living worse.
A rapist can put you in jail, with one tear of her eye.
A rapist will claim that you’ve hit her, that you wanted her to die.
A rapist is a liar, she hides behind her make up.
A rapist will be in your dreams, even when you wake up.
A rapist has the ability to avoid the clutches of the law,
A rapist can claim you’ve hit her, if you didn’t stand for her at
anyway.there are things i know too well about you, and most of them break my heart just remembering them. i knew the look in your eyes right before you would cry, or how it would snap and change from a look of swelling tides to unfiltered rage, aimed directly at me. cause i was the closest thing that you could bruise or throw your words at that wasn't a wall, or yourself. it wasn't damaging you, and as far i was concerned, that was worth a few flourishes or a swollen eye.
the alternative just wasn't worth mentioning or comparing.
there was something not right in your head, maybe the vodka or whatever you drink dissolved a synapses or two, because the notion of cause and effect didn't seem to make any sense, and empathy was just completely lost on you. i did love you, the best i knew how to, the best i could with the cards you gave me. i don't know if you returned those feelings when you were sober and weren't forced to be honest. drunken words are apparently the truths we can't admit when we'
Magic HourMagic Hour
by Kit the Wolfy
I always keep a cool and sunny place in my heart.
A place where the sky glows with the rich blue and pink and yellow of dusk and dawn, and everything is in picture-perfect clarity.
It's my own private magic hour.
And in this magic hour where everything is clear and bright, I take some time every day to reflect.
Reflect on the people I love.
Even if it's hard to continue, and even if I have scars,
My magic hour always heals the pain.
So, every day, I take a little time to retreat into my heart, into my magic hour.
And in that magic hour, I sit down in the grass, lie back, stare up at the shining sky...
And I think about how grateful I am that I have the people I love.
EmotionalA lot of people say that emotions is what makes us human because it's healthy for us to stay happy, joyful, and to always smile. But, what if the table was turn? In fact, is it turned already? Because some people can't feel that way.
What if instead they felt the opposite? What if they felt sad, pessimistic, and always cried tears every day in their lives? Some of them can't help, but feel like that. They feel like they're hopeless, mistakes, imperfect, or not good enough, anxious, depressed, bipolar, tearful, broken, and never going to be the person they dream of being.
So the real question is: Is being any other emotion besides happiness make us human?
NothingAnd the preview shows Nothing, just like the title of this poem.
But what's behind the "Nothing"? If you come closer you will see anything that is, paradoxically, "The Nothing."
TrustIt's almost impossible to make your mark on this world,
The true art in what I do is gone.
Once it was skill, and knowledge mixed with science that created the still image,
You had to know what an f-stop did, you had to know about depth of field.
Now everyone has a camera, everyone is a photographer,
What I pride myself on, is still striving to be better.
Trying to bring my own life's experiences to my images,
Finding the right people, people with soul, people with hurt inside them.
Encouraging those people to let down their walls,
To cry, to laugh, to be sexy, and sultry, and scary and mean and passionate for my lens.
To reveal themselves, sometimes for the first time ever, sometimes for the last time ever,
Some reveal their hearts, some reveal their bodies, all reveal something.
Because if you think I'll just have you just standing there, you are wrong,
You will be encouraged to let go.
Know that I know my art, the technical side, the science behind a great shot,
Trust that for a fle
How Can I tell my heart that I'm done caring for you, when it continues to beat evermore?
I tell myself that it cannot be, after all that I have come to see. My head says I'm done, but my heart says to continue my stride towards your embrace. I miss your tender, sweet embrace, even though it wasn't worth the pain. When I think about you, my heart still flutters and my stomach gets uneasy. Everytime I think of you, I try to shut it out, and put in the back my mind, but it continues to struggle like a sailor struggling against the powerful waves of the sea seeking to crush all in their path. I hate feeling so vulnerable to even the thought of you. What can be done?
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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