starmz123

There’s this idea of boundaries representing thresholds — states of transition with nothing more or less than the in-between. Liminal spaces. Mine, I think, is the horizon. Let me paint the scene: the edge of the Dead Sea, with nothing but endless stretches of sea and sky. The still sea reflects the moody grey sky, lightened from its natural pitch-black by the rising sun. It’s 6 in the morning — the cusp of dawn. The horizon is just about to open up; but not quite, not yet. Have a seat, please. Waiting for sunrise is always worth it, but it’s agonizingly slow when you do. I’m sorry, I would have taken you

i want to write poems about you but i am afraid that what we have is chaste morning mist blue (nothing to write home about) i want to write poems about you because writing is in my blood i live and die by my words and to write is to expose; to love i want to write poems about you about the way you smile about how you are kind and gentle and smart about the way you love our world i want to write poems about you but maybe i can't, or i won't maybe we're just unpoetic.

raw, bleeding heart that’s how you like to describe yourself. or maybe it should be: open, gaping wound you like to think you’re emotional; sensitive (and you are, that); good-natured (hah); idealistic (perhaps in the past). let’s unpack that, shall we? sometimes you’re not quite sure what’s real and what’s not your entire existence, it just – it feels like a fantasy an illusion a delusion like everything else is too much so overwhelmingly real and you, you aren’t. in fact, you live your life in words (but not the good kind) you surround yourself with media (you are unflinchingly honest about

the kind of person who is beautiful, and inspires perfect storms, and gives inanimate objects emotions; the hurricane to my drizzle, a bigger infinity; the guiding light, my home away from home; with constellations for freckles and quiet, understated affection; who steals moonlight for her hair and pretends like she accepts all my imperfections; the dandelion to my forest fire, the spring breeze to my arid earth, the iridescent raindrop to my howling gale, the steadfast blaze to my turbulent waves; the girl behind my ink, the boy behind my words; the freedom, the poetry, the good and the bad; an ending - which, as we all know, is where begin

a long time ago, she once asked, "you would give me up for the stars?" how could i explain, that i would do it in a heartbeat, because at least the stars looked as lonely as i i think i should feel guilty for occasionally thinking that perhaps moving away wouldn't be such a bad thing after all how could i explain, that despite being able to frequent many groups, nobody made me feel wanted? i think i should feel guilty for believing that things would get better because perhaps i'd just be cliched and lock myself inside the toilet at lunch but then i would remember that that isn't so different from what i do here, anyway. i think i should

you trail bruises across my clavicle as you whisper sweet nothings i apologise to you, thinking that my skin is just too soft you brush my hair away from my face and lean down to touch my forehead i smile at you and laugh, knowing you only mean well you hug me until i can't breathe as i cry into your shoulder you say that you understand and you'll try to change i kiss you long and hard and try to memorise your features it's only when i start to dissolve away that i think     maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

she toils on her labour of love unconsciously putting pieces of herself in it cutting her heart open and exposing its vulnerability all the while, she meticulously prepares a birthday gift personalised not for them, but by her then, the day before the giving they ring her up to say 'why don't you give this to me in public?' and she protests without really knowing why except that it feels strangely, ridiculously wrong then she realises, oh of course. she'd put too much of herself in this gift. so she packs away her vulnerability her little notes herself she strips herself from the gift and becomes fully content with giving this soulless,

sometimes i wonder if i merely enjoy my own suffering or if i rather wickedly enjoy my own misery because sometimes in the shower i sit down and enjoy the free-flowing water perhaps i find it cathartic or maybe i just want to freeze time it could be that i'm just too emotional and it's nice to not be mercurial but rather, to stay in one state then again, maybe something's wrong after all, enjoying sadness? that sounds like a symptom that should be diagnosed and after all this thinking and self-reflection i fluff my pillows and lie back down but then all i do is wrap myself up in my blanket of tears and snuggle back into oblivion

     when the stars come out     and the moon waltzes alone     peel back your blanket     and tiptoe quietly out     into the night     do not tarry     do not gaze     up at the sky     and admire a shooting star     or a meteor shower     (such pleasures can     and will happen again)     troop briskly across the plains     run for six miles     following the broken dirt road     do not stop,     not until you reach a mountain ablaze     make