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Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. - Anton Chekhov
Emma T. 16. All the writing on this page is mine, unless otherwise stated.
The calendar hung itself
Punctuate me

Punctuate me.

Let me feel complete, let me feel something other

than floating words trying to fathom themselves into sentences.

Am I here? I am here.

Let me know whether I am the question or the statement.

Be the knot in my otherwise loose laces, be the map to my otherwise lost path, be

that which binds the notes together into a streaming song.

You are here. Are you here?

Let me know whether you are the question or the statement. 

It is raining Chopin

Reminding me that together we are an arpeggio

Alone, I am played in legato

I plant myself in every horizon and

at one end of each rainbow; the other end belonging to somebody else.

I watch the clock and can tell it is 8:00 when the train passes

but I can’t see the hands move.

It is 2012 not because of the fireworks in

limbo between December and January, but because

I can feel the red yarn in me tightening –

I have less. 

A poem I wrote when drunk

I am broken 
My thoughts are shatters 
Blending together 
Nothing matters
Thunder in my head 
Thunder in my bedt
Thunder in my heart 
You’ve lost it all 
And ive firgotten how to fall 
You fell into my pieces 
The way you’ve always beene
But looking into scars 
Made me notice what’s within 
Ive forgotten who i am
Maybe forgotten my name
Maybe it’s becaus things will never 
Be the same 
You’ll never be the same
I wish you heard he thunder 
I wish you felt it all
I wish you knew the scars 
And I wish you knew the fall 
I wanted you to notice
The things you couldn’t feel
I wanted, tha the broken 
Would be something possible to heal

I often find myself wishing there was a place to go and escape reality, a place where we could escape whenever we wished. I think about this place whenever I find myself lacking the will to live and do everything that life is demanding from me at that moment. I imagine it to be similar to death, a place very far out of reach from reality. Somewhere where the unconscious takes control. It would be somewhere both dark and soothing, with a mind of it’s own.

Then I realize this place exists.

It’s where we go to when we close our eyes at night, when we are tired of our long day of being alive; our dreams.

Here’s a list of songs I enjoy listening to


Because this is so much more productive than doing math

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(Source: 6tea6)

"Let’s all give a round of applause to the soldiers who have served our country."
The goodness of one is measured by death
How many times have you prepared to die?
How many times have you prepared to kill?
A cannibalist exchange of lives for power
The cycle builds itself
People are dominoes.
Ready to kill, ready to die
At the flick of a finger
The exposure of war has almost made me accept it

Color your legs with bruises

Paint your arms with blood

Hide yourself in bookstores

In the corners or crowds of

Dirt-ridden faces and eyes soaked in

Self-pity. Drink their hurries

their egos, their small-talk

Their routined worries

Scrape their thoughts with

Abstract ink foaming

out your mouth

Make them think or hate or cry

Or love

Hide yourself in stopwatches

And deadlines and diets

Walk behind nothing

Because it’s the heaviest wall

I am


turbulent shaking

My arms spiral around the hole-filled walls

And the soapy dampness of my back

attaches to another’s

Rinsing and drowning

Forgetting myself and the memories that

Stain me

Pulled out of confinement

Into the air

Twisted and turned

Swirling into myself

release, hang, dry

The faults remain as wrinkles

Burned. Pressed. Burned.

Let me remake my identity, let me live another round


Shadows overlap, expanding with tremor and curiosity.

Sometimes they reach your eyes, sometimes they paint your pupils.
Sometimes you forget anything other exists.

Anything but the shadows.

Sometimes dawn is darker than the pool of moons and stars.
And it takes a while for your eyes to adjust
to the breaking of the sky
as the shadows of light creep over it, slowly subduing the mixed molasses of peaceful fear

Forgetting is never catalyzed by order


As I burn the bristles of all my brushes

As I drop the blackened stubs of scorched

Left-over wood

I forget of it’s existence

I pretend I have destroyed creation

Until the splinters work their way up my heels

And paint my blood cells


They have not forgotten me