this one's for you.because you are keeping my legs from folding.because when i am tired, i am leaning on you, when i am sad, i am crawling into your comfort. because you are hooking my lips and pulling them into a smile, building a fire in the belly of my soul and warming me from the inside out.because when i am lost, you are pointing in the right direction, when i am shaking, you’re holding my hand and whispering it will be alright.and because when i’m incoherent you’re closing your eyes and saying my rambling sounds a little like a creek. because when i’m jumping from thought to thought without leaving a trail, you’re laughing a
Clash of the FandumbsOne day an orange ninja was busy sitting under a tree and eating ramen when a challenger appeared."I challenge you to a duel," said a spiky-haired individual with a gigantic key. The boy then proceeded to wave his key in a most threatening and scary manner. "Like oh my god," said the orange ninja. "You are just a boy with a key and I am a ninja. Wearing orange.""Omg that is like the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," said the Key Boy. "What kind of ninja wears bright orange? I can see you a mile away." "It's okay," said the Orange Ninja, "I'll just recolor myself to blend into my surroundings for camouflage. Recolor no Jutsu!"
irreplaceable.Some things in life cannot be replaced.This is the hymn beating within the pulses of those who mourn the shooting stars who have come and gone, who cling to the stardust of comets too hot to tie to this earth of dust and soil. This is the song lilies hum when dusk falls and the ground moves from the thrumming of a hundred pleading hearts in unison; what wheat fields cry out when absences are apparent and desperate mouths are praying into pillows late at night. This is the truth that is realized when mornings shot golden with sunlight do not pluck the beauty of dreams back into reality, but rather face the hollow space once occupied with lif
what is meant by playing deadthe house looks like helium. it is faded with cold as its body, thickets of slatted wood painted palely. shutters are closed eyelids, unbearable lightness to the miserly scene before them.these streets are cobbled and winter-bleached, colours in hibernation save for three bodies of varying paleness lying slatternly in its centre.bones compounded, salted twigs in white shades bent and broken; there is no blood, just an overwhelming taste of death.who's that? a bloodless face murmurs from its position on the axis of the recumbent spine.think his name's johnny, a nearby body whispers.it's not, the broken limbs in question croaks.the
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