These are moments..not much more...moments I've heard about and moments I remember...and things I feel...
Two weekends of crying
Two weekends of dying
A week full of lonesome lying
Pretending everyday isn’t a challenge
Pretending everyday is a new horizon
Pretending everyday I’m okay feeling this way
Pretending every day my mask isn’t cracking
Pretending everyday that this faced is lasting.
Because of my lack of a computer (at library at the moment),
I’ve taken to writting poetry in a notebook.
Many have no titles, just numbers. Anything with a number, comes right from my poetry book.
Enjoy.
Reblog or like if you want to join.
The Rules are:
1. When you feel like you want to cut, take a marker, pen, or sharpies and draw a butterfly on your arm or hand.
2. Name the butterfly after a loved one, or someone that really wants you to get better.
3. You must let the butterfly fade…
(via fuckyeahdepressingthings)
(via fuckyeahdepressingthings)
I feel this one.
(via fuckyeahdepressingthings)
(via fuckyeahdepressingthings)
This is my favorite poem at the moment.
It’s a sheer truth that is brutally honest and yet terrifing.
The other day, I realized that although to many on campus I am not beautiful or ‘pretty’, I am however pretty damn intellegent, pretty damn creative and pretty damn amazing. For that, I am happy with myself, for I may not be suitably fuckable, but I am suitably talkable and worthy of knowing.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.
Rosemarie Urquico (via kblitz)
(via conversationslips)
Rosemarie no longer has an active blog, but she can be found on Facebook here:
To see the post about how she was found, please go here. Thanks, Jonathan (who should eventually get a website that I can link to, yes) for searching!http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/profile.php?id=585211028
(via themonicabird)
(via themonicabird)
Close your eyes.
Just for a second.
It’s about 85…maybe even 90 degrees.
The sky’s showing sings of impending rain.
Every time that wonderful breeze blows, your lungs are filled with the sweet aroma of flowers and the sky’s watery promise.
You’re laying on your back, on the cool, tiled porch on the second floor of a cement, two family house.
You can hear the instrumental ending to “Hotel California” from some where beyond you.
You just lay there,
eyes closed,
relaxing,
melting a w a y .
That’s the first image that comes to mind when I think of my childhood. It’s where my mind wonders off to. Where a part of me forever longs to be.
Laying here, on blankets draped over the springs of an old military bed, my mind has brought me back there. A place so far now, so familiar, yet so foreign. However on nights such as these, when sleep avoids me, I wondered back. It’s a wonderful escape from my thoughts during the night.
Sometimes, I feel like my thoughts wait till the black of night, when my senses are clouded, my sight disabled, to start nagging, even screaming at me. Tonight, they don’t scream, they simply crowd. They make me feel full, they make me feel empty, sometimes, they keep me from feeling anything.
(via fuckyeahdepressingthings)
