The Writer's Bloc

tragicallyfiction:

Twinkle Little Stars

I remember when I had this little globe that could project the stars. I would point at the ceiling and lay down on the floor. My read hair spreading before as if fit was on fire. Looking at the stars made me wonder of how small we were. How insignificant we were, my thought not original. We all think this, we all realize how small and non-important we are. How meaningless our life is and how we try to fill this sense of importance through our religion, our beliefs.

Twinkle Twinkle little star
Ahh the stars so giant that it might one day eat me.

Spreading and expanding like the common cold.
How I wonder what you are 

I twist and turn to see if the stars will change. They never do, they stay the same in this projection. Life is so simple. Grow up, go to college, become in debt, graduate, pay off college debt, get a mortgage, and pay it off. A cycle that we created, a symbol only those with enough power can break. Oh my wonder stars please help me. I look at you all and see the wonders that have you to be created, discovered.

We are the plague.
The black holes are our own hearts.
 Up above the world so high

 I guess in a way the stars are our gods. We are made from them, from stardust. They created this universe and everything in it. From us to the aliens everyone is scared to admit are true. Its okay lowly humans will never comprehend. One day I will be gone and the stars will still burn. One day the Earth will be gone and they will still burn.

 The human race—destined to destroy themselves.

(via deadfiction-deactivated20130102)

6

tragicallyfiction:

I am the sleeping princess. The adorned innocence in the broken mirror, the angel’s heart that was destroyed. The beds of thorns biting into my skin, making me bleed the color of the horizon. Touch me with your scarred fingers, hands that have stolen flowers. Delicately bring me to oblivion,…

(via deadfiction-deactivated20130102)

7

Loud

writtencrevice:

cacophony 
beat my eardrum violently
words you spew shroud clear judgement
rape the inner conscience 
cacophony 
shut the fuck up
I am begging 

Jazzy’s note: Different, and original.

(via sublimerocketship-deactivated20)

30

plane watching

pinksubmergence:

plane-watching at the balcony
I count the metal birds
they pass by so swiftly
leaving only contrails blurred.

piercing through feathers and cottons
I mutter to myself
“one day, young man, one day”
you’ll go places to find yourself

as the sound of jet engines arrive
the delay leaves me cold
“one day, we’ll meet, my man”
our stories will unfold

Jazzy’s note: I heart him! This filled me with nostalgia.

11

Stream of Consciousness

iamthehuntress:

I’m sitting here thinking about love and whether it is real or not. I’m not talking about the, ‘does it exist?’ or the ‘can we really feel it?’ type of thoughts; I’m talking about truly being real. I don’t know what emotion is. I don’t like it. Well, sometimes I do. I like it when it makes my heart race in a good way and when it makes me smile. I hate it when it makes my eyes fill up or my face get too hot and red. I hate it when it gives me butterflies. I remember when I thought I was in love, and Hell, maybe I was, but anyway—I remember for the first few months I got butterflies before I went to visit him and I always fucking hated it. I would try to think of some excuse to get out of it, just to soothe those damn butterflies that made me sick on my stomach and made my heart beat way too quickly. I always wondered if it was normal to be so anxious. I always thought it was good to be anxious when you were in love, like it wasn’t even anxiety, just excitement, but that’s not true and I know it now. It was fear, nervousness, and not the good kind. 

Is there a good kind of nervousness? Can anything that makes you sick on your stomach and dizzy be good? Alcohol, I guess. But that’s about it. I don’t like love. I don’t want emotion. I don’t want love. 

Jazzy’s note: I wonder the same, thought the same…

14

misusedwords:

I find beauty in words.
    How they can be spun
 just so, and dance graciously
      until they find the right place
                 to fill pages
and create stories
       no one has ever dared to dream.

I find beauty in  your arms.
     Gentle and strong
they hold
    the weight          of the world
and me, too
         and yet somehow
they don’t c o l l a p s e  from the
                pressure.


I find beauty in nature,
   how the rain
refreshes      the   earth
     and creates life.
The   leaves  always know
when to turn the perfect shade of
burnt red, warm orange, or singed
             with brown. 

I find beauty in music,
    clashing  harmonies
all supported with one
           liquid harmony
barely  holding   on,
a conversation   between
       notes and rhythms
telling truths  you can’t
          admit yourself. 

I find beauty in laughter
    how o   n   e 
simple action can
change  a day
    maybe even a year,
 starting from the tips
                        of your toes
and escaping likes pearls
      from your pink lips.


But I wish I could find beauty in myself 

Jazzy’s note: so moving and beautifully written.

145

                You broke it            My heart and
            my shattered soul     I often wonder if I
         will ever be whole, if I/ can or if I will, I need
       you. I can’t do it alone\ I can’t climb up the wall
        I am weak right now in/ my time of great need
        I can’t glue this broken\ heart back together
         at least not alone and/ dying on the inside
          The only blame is for\ Me and myself, no
            it’s not your fault. / This symbol is my
              heart. Shattered \ and split in two
                These words are/ the words of
                  the hurt, pain \ I bare every
                    single day of / my broken
                      sad, painful\ miserable
                        hell I know/ as my 
                          life. How \ can 
                            someone/ be
                              dead  /on,
                                on  \the
                                 inside
                                   </3 

5

please

eeyoresaruman:

free me with knowledge—
teach again and again this
language of your lips

Jazzy’s note: <3

(via eeyoresaruman-deactivated201202)

11

shawwriting:

 My colors bleed into one another and as a whole, I am fading. I remember being vibrant and unstoppable, a canvas of sensory pleasure that would always catch your eye.

I remember, but I do not remember clearly enough to sustain any happiness. 

I am too trapped in my current state: sapped of energy and dwindling in my own halfway attempt at living. 

It would be nice to see myself through your memory.  

Jazzy’s note: love it!

(Source: awholenewnormal)

14

Bite

oxytocin-iv:

        I want to
      sink my teeth
  into the cream velvet
      of your skin,

split
   your neck
     with white enamel,
      reveal crimson lust
      and bite deep,
      encasing my
     canines in
   your flesh;
  I want to
bite.

Jazzy’s note: rawr!!!!

76

unclothed

pinksubmergence:

with you I am an effulgent sea
bright and splendid in nakedness
I cover not my scars
and I fear no disgust
there is only love
there is only lust
gauzy sheets are unnecessary
look at me.

Jazzy’s note: so beautiful! <3

12

It Happened Over Night

alldressedupfor:

Isn’t it strange to think of the degrees of separation that exist between you and the people you once knew? The distance can be a number of steps, a number of miles, a number of days, months, years, a number of apologies, a number of words, a number of silences, a number of hits and misses. Sometimes I can’t help but look at those people and wonder just how and when that seed was planted. One day I turned around and found a yard full of weeds I never saw growing. And that’s what really kills it in the end, I think. The fact that you tried to tend to it when so little of what was left was what it started as.

Jazzy’s note: this.

(Source: nataliaaaaaxo)

3

I want to sleep with you: A definition.

poetryisnotjustforgirls:

I sleep with your skin on my skin
In the micro particle film
Of a million ground Tinkerbelles.
And you in the corners
Of the leaking shadows 
that crawl nightly 
into my warm
hip hollows.
And my skin and bone haze.
I sleep with your sleep breathing steadily into mine.
I sleep with my fiction
(A you: Loftier, more distant, than the mast of a ship.)
In a smoke wisp curl around my whole camp of cortexes.
I sleep in the liquid blue ice that pours from me when I pour from you
And one question:
Are you not afraid sitting so close to me? At this black hole outer edge? 
in this wasteland?

3

Firecracker

supersatellite:

I’ve got a mouth full of matches and I’m burning up in smoke through these veins. This blood is like kerosene and she’s got me sparked - set aflame like an inferno, blazing in tongues of warm promises she’s safely kept hidden away. They’re locked inside. Hushed in small crackling embers like the whispers rushed against the silence gesture of her fingertips. This little firecracker is for me and shes burning - flickering like roped tendrils set into the pits of these dynamite eyes. Impending pupils that roam and explore, devour her word-for-word and every stanza is an explosion of colour sparkling in my eyes.

Tonight, I know she’s going to light up this indigo sky. She’ll set it on fire for us all, burning up these stormy clouds like she’s down to the very last drop of kerosene. She’ll take on the night and we’ll all watch from below, just a bunch of silenced stargazers hoping that for one night she’ll make us forget about it all. This lovely ruby of fire with magic set in her fingertips. I think even now she’s burned into my horizon forever.

Jazzy’s note: This is amazing. He’s amazing.

97