Who Did It Better? 007

Who did it better? 007

Mind/ Emotion reading

Aaron Warner vs. Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

Sometimes I wonder who I need more. Me or you. Though I know I cannot be trusted with either.

~are we not all just looking for something to live for?

When you notice the dozens of likes, just know that 1. Yes I have been at this a while, 2. It is your fault for writing so captivatingly, 3. I adore every thing you have written and will continue to bombard you with likes. Have a great day.

I--i'm crying? Not even joking im in the cafeteria trying to discretely dab at tears. Thank you. Holy crap. This means so much to me...honestly. Its nice to have people like my pieces but to have someone take the time to tell me or have the dedication or enjoy my work enough to come back consitantly, it means the world. Thank you. So so so much. Wow for a writer im not being very eloquent. Thank you. 💞

When the shooting star is gone and the night is dark again, all you have left to hold on to is the faith that your wish was heard

~Excuses for missing you

Where Does Poetry Come From

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And this. This is where it comes from. From questions like this. Feel the words turn to ink in your mouth. Coat your tongue and drip onto notebook paper. Watch the ink turn into black hole droplets, and poetry my love, comes from the universes encapsulated in that darkness.

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And then you smile. And that. That is where it comes from. It is birthed from the way the sun reflects off your teeth and eyes onto lined paper perfectly. The shadowed letters begging to be penned. Claiming they are here from the heavens and it is impossible to think otherwise.

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And that is where it comes from. From the way every word spoken by your voice possesses a lyric like quality. A melody that sings me to sleep and wakes me gently to the sunrise. A song I cannot quite remember the words to and so I try to recall them with pen and paper and the quiet background track of your laughter set on repeat to keep me company, and jog my memory.

Poetry

Is a good friend

She waits patiently

While I cry

& just when I think

I may drown in this sorrow

She reminds me

Of how to turn ruined mascara

& tears into ink

Holds me long after the inspiration has gone home

& kisses all the broken beautiful