Sorry: A Plea

The ache to become something
worth a person’s suspiring being:
it is a substance that claws and
chomps into your conscience.
The realization that you have
deceived and
fabricated,
paltered and
distorted one’s trust
is nothing short of heart wrenching.
To find words that express penitent
thoughts
is impossible.
I have said that I am struggling,
that I am an unbroken object that
needs to be
fixed.
You, however, have helped me,
supported me, trusted me
and all I can do is ignore.
I’m sorry.
I’m so, so sorry.

A Mid Julys night

sleeplessinasmalltownn:

Still wind
Whistling sprinklers
Songs sung in sunny chirps
Cool grass
Lost lights setting
a summer nights ambiance

http://pariskillian.tumblr.com/post/92487060968/stories-for-the-gutter-cliches-with-gore-that

pariskillian:

Stories for the gutter
Cliches with gore that make the weak stutter
Identify a seamless mind with many names
All these pictures are in the wrong frame
You haunt the girl with your insides
Her name in which he coincides
Rooted in chemical clatter
The lids of bottles often chatter
Speaking…

Beautiful:)

Go, Get Him!

beaconavenue:

She said that she thought
That she might have a crush on that guy
Someone she met when
Her time was day and mine was night

She said that she smiled
And that he smiled right back at her
For a lot of time when
I lay awake and alone between words

I said that I loved to hear
How her reality…

Summer Night

The warm night air
hardly touches me.
I reach for any semblance
of air,
but the request is not met.
I am hot,
beads of sweat
reaching crevices I once believed
could never be reached.
My eyes droop,
dark chocolate struggling
to remain open as the night
begins to shack up my bones.
Limbs still crave for
something cold, something to
raise each bump on my flesh,
but the night has refused and I
am trapped in this
summer night.

I’m not broken, 

but I still need to be 

fixed.

Dare

To see the things that my eyes have caught. To hear the things my sensitive eardrums picked up. For someone to dare to know what I’ve been through, for their lips to flutter against each other as lies clawed their way between: they simply cannot fathom. They cannot, should not, claim to know. Have their hands grasped at promises and hurtful gestures such as I? Or have they smelled aromas and scents of sweat that fell from foreign bodies? Until they placed their feet firmly inside the withering soles of my shoes, then they cannot, shall not, dare to know what I’ve been through.

Troubled Skin

The curve of your lips
have defended sharp teeth.
The pearly whites desperately
crave to cling onto
the soft, lip gloss covered flesh.
Fingertips,
each line and deep indentation,
trail and sneak their way
to tickle and brush against
the cream of your skin.
A sigh would escape and run
from you,
the quiet gasp not left
unnoticed
by seeking ears.
It is when the troubled skin
that so graciously covers and
protects
your heart,
that a shiver would come from
you.
It is when words would
falter,
the curve ever so present
on your face falling.