Noise. What noise? There was no noise. Which was odd, because we were at a concert. There should have been noise. But there was only him. Only his eyes. Only his face. Only that silence that's so beautiful. And that was ok. Because his eyes made all the noise I wanted.
The shoes.
It didn't even take her a second to figure out what they were, who's they were, and what this meant to her.
They were the shoes, the ugliest, yet most interesting shoes she'd ever seen. They belonged to him, the person who was most special to her in the world, discluding relatives. And it meant that he had done something.
Shaking, she swiftly bent over, and sucked in a breath.
There was blood on the shoes.Shakily she stood up, and ran as fast as she could to the phone. Willing her hands to be still, she poked in his number.
The sun was shining that unique gold color it shines when setting, and the shadows it was casting were magnificent. But the girl, normally in tune with shadows, and sunsets, and anything that would make a good picture, wasn’t paying much attention. She only noticed the sun when it trickled through his hair, or outlined him brightly. The him in question was slightly taller than her, with longish brown hair that always fell perfectly around his face and turned up at the ends. His eyes were open, not necessarily large, but earnest. His smile wasn’t exactly symmetrical, but she loved the way one side went up slightly farther than the other. The were sitting, turned toward each other, on a bench by the river. They were close, but not unbearably close, just a tickle of almost- touch between them. The air was cool, like it always is in fall, but it wasn’t so cold that they needed heavy jackets. He wore his standard camo shorts, and an brown and green OBEY hoodie, while she dressed in dark jeans and an over-large, faded blue hoodie. They were about as aware of the world as it was of them, which was just a brief acknowledgment of existence in busy minds. They would lean forward during a particularly intense part of the conversation, then seem to catch themselves and lean back out. If anyone would’ve had the time to stop and observe them, they would have noticed that the conversation could go from apparently serious to laughter in a matter of words. But the aura from these two was laid back, mellow, content. It’s probably better that no one had time to watch them. If they had, they would’ve been jealous.
You know what's sooooo cool?
"and i know this probably ain't much of a surprise, but i seriously have though about it and i like you. deeply. not the shallow kind just about looks but the deep kind; i like the person you are. just the way you think and speak, they way you live your life, just...well..y
OoO, does Jaime feel special or what? I'll answer for you: Jaime feels special.
imaginedwhen you were young."
likeme. That's what [blows my mind].
I have no problem waiting. Anticipation is the best part of life. The reward of waiting is only half the satisfaction. So it's just as good waiting for your message as finally receiving it and being overjoyed at getting it. -Josh Pittman
The edge is crumbling beneath my feet,
I have no chance but to go down.
But will I fall, or will I fly?
Falling is falling, it's always the same,
But flying is falling with style.
Sorry, but it's too true...
[Kissing is a habbit
Fucking is a game
guys get all the pleasure
girls get all the pain
the guy says he loves you
you believe its true
your stomache starts to swell
he says, Fuck you
1 hour of pleasure
9 months of pain
3 days in the hospital
A baby without a name
The baby is a bastard
The mother is a whore
This never would have happened
If the rubber had not torn]
Sorry guys, but it's really true, a lot of the time. Especially
"[Kissing is a habbit
Fucking is a game
guys get all the pleasure
girls get all the pain
the guy says he loves you
you believe its true"
I'm feeling oh-so-sexist tonight, can ya tell? Sorry for all you guys who aren't like this, I know all my friends aren't, just something that's true that makes me madder than...smell.
Apartment Walls
by Stephanie Powell, Age 14
I wrote the story
of our relationship
on the apartment walls
of the old apartment
after you had left.
In the kitchen
I wrote about
all our good dates.
In the sabinets
I wrote about the bad ones.
In my room
I wrote all my flaws
and all the good things
you ever said were me.
When I got to your room
I lost myself.
And in red paint
I wrote "fuck you"
all over everything.
In the bathroom
I wrote about my overdose.
In the living room
I made a list of every movie
we ever rented.
And in the guest room
I wrote how stupid I had been
With your friends
in town to stay.
I wrote how cruel you were.
On the front door
I wrote goodbye.
I packed up my shit
and left it all behind.
And i bet by now
the landlord has painted
it all back to white.
Leaving us with no history.
I love this.
"People with big eyes have such a gift."
Baby, don't cry
I'm sorry it was all a lie
Baby, don't cry
All you gotta do is try
Baby, don't cry
You'll get through it by and by
Baby, don't cry
I wish I could heal you
broken heart
Pick up all the pieces, give you a
brand new start
Baby, don't cry
I wish it was never torn apart
Baby, don't cry
I know it's been hard to begin
again
But baby, you'll never regret it.
Please baby
Baby don't cry
...My mum wrote this for me. I don't know if you guys can understand the importance that has for me, but it's really special to me.
I saw a boy today. I know, I see many boys, every day. But he was special, somehow. He was walking on the road. And that made him special. Not because he was walking on the road, neccesarily, but because of the way he was walking on the road. Or maybe it was just him. He looked up as we passed, looked me in the eyes with a nervous, confused look, and waved. Like he was nervous and it was an unconscious reaction. I watched him until we got to my house, then I watched him walking past my house. He played with sticks, and leaves along the way, taking his time. He looked behind him a lot. I wondered if he was running away from an abusive house. Or maybe walking to a friend's. I wanted to yell, "Hey, are you ok?" I should have. Maybe he wasn't. It might have made a difference. Oh well.
"Lyn will cutt him...and he will cry...oh yes...he will cry for psycho-analizi
*sigh* I love my Lyn...she makes me happy. She's my only friend who says stuff like that. And it makes me happy.
Beautiful one, why do you weep? For life. Why do you weep for life? Because it is sad.
¿El hermoso, por qué usted llora? Para la vida. ¿Por qué usted llora para la vida? Porque es triste.
Quello bello, perchè piangete? Per vita. Perchè piangete per vita? Poiché è triste.
She dances on tiptoes to the song, one arm on an invisible shoulder, one holding an invisible hand. Her eyes closed, an almost-smile on her face, she gracefully places a foot forward, then back, to the side, then to the other side. They laugh at her, maybe because they know how to dance, maybe because she looks funny out there dancing with no one. But she doesn’t know. It wouldn’t matter if she did. She’s in another place...
She stands on tiptoes because her dancing partner is so tall. Neither of them know exactly how to dance, but they simply move to the music in a way that seems right, at least to them. Both are half-smiling, aware that they may look ridiculous in pajamas and jeans, but also aware that it doesn’t matter, because the world has shrunk down to a bubble containing them and the music they dance to. She moves her hand from his shoulder to his hair, and runs it through the fluffy brown softness. As his smile widens, so does hers, and they end up grinning at each other, grinning so widely they have to laugh to give the muscles a rest. Still dancing, she tentatively lays her head on his chest. She feels him sigh happily, then rest his head on hers. She smiles, amazed that such small gestures can affect her heart so much. They sway now, every so often taking step to the side, both so content just with the moment, and praying that they get the chance to do this again.
A tear-stained paper lies crumpled on the floor,
But the problems written on it are no more:
Loneliness, suicide, and different kinds of hate;
Cussing, and smoking, and lust on every date;
Disrespect, arguments, and things you shouldn’t see;
Unforgiveness, selfishness, being who they want you to be.
All of these, a grocery list, of heavy, burdening sins,
Everything was dropped tonight when they let Jesus in.
Let Him in to clean that room where their temptations lay.
Let Him in to dry the tears and clean the guilt away.
For some, the words came hard that night, for some words came fast,
But all of them, each single one, had burdens that they cast.
And so now, the little words scrawled tightly on that list
Are really quite irrelevant because they ceased to exist.
This doesn’t mean they’re perfect, or that they’ll never fall,
It simply means God’s heard their cry, and they won’t have to carry it all.
Grocery List of Sins
Written by [Your Favorite Stranger]