On nights like these, I can almost feel those moments replayed. In my car, I speed down winding back roads, music blaring, trying to block out what used to be. Sadly though, the music isn't loud enough to drown out those dirty parts that make up the mess that is called me. That grief-stricken teen, the one who would have done anything to survive. Those are the things I can never quite forget. As the music gets louder and the roads get curvier, I sink back into who I used to be. But just for a moment. Suddenly, thoughts of those moments where I gave everything away seem to come flooding back in, leaving no room for breathe. That moment where I was trapped underneath him, terrified that screaming would make things worse. Then the moment where I trusted him to take those very large parts of me. Another moment where I thought I couldn't live and almost gave up. All of the moments where people told me I was crazy. The moments I lied and covered up the cuts. The moment where I got called into the office..because people were "concerned." The moment where I wished it would all just end. Then the moment where I took him back, then ran to the next "him." The countless moments I gave myself away, searching for the pieces that the first "him" stole. Every moment that almost broke me, and yet I am still here. Those moments together are who I am today. Though I am proud today, I am ashamed of who I used to be.
rhythmically, the tap dripped and the sewing machine whirred as he clinked on the edge of the glass while stirring the liquid.like clockwork, he heard a nervous tapping on the green arched door.cool air rushed into the room causing the chain on his pocket watch to swing gently.
sliding down her hood, she revealed to him her long tendrils of golden curls which were arranged perfectly to frame her angelic face. exchanging a small smile, he stepped aside, inviting her inside.
watching intently, she noticed how the grooves that had been dug into his forehead over the years resembled crop rows.his worn hand reached out for hers and the warmth of his palm settled the cold of her fingers and together, they found balance
Why is there a writer's fixation about the sea? I'm probably not a real writer then. Because all the great ones had this obsession about that dark blue giant pool (or, sometimes, about the skies - made of the same blue). I prefer to write about a guy taking a shit, staring at his toenails - that need to be cut.
Ugh, the sea. Is it because of the vast emptiness of a never-ending blue? Does that reflect the inside of a true writer? A sight the goes way deep into nothingness. Yeah, I can see why it appeals. But, still, it does not inspires me. I might as well continue to write about dirty toilets.
The Barbershop runs at night. Each costumer has it's own story to share. All the chairs are covered with a black leather.
The barber hears each story like we read a book. In every phrase is sort of magic, that keeps the whole barbershop warm and bright.
Everything gains life as the words come out their mouths and the scissors clings and cuts and the beards get trimmed.
As the barbershop closes, the stories remain.
Do you want me to draw you a picture? Capitalism is dying, and my body is not as resilient as it used to be. I ate a french-fry, now I'm cramming leafy greens into my face-hole, chewing 'til my cheeks ache. Capitalism is dying, everything is fake. anarchy is rising, money is on fire. People are exchanging products on the web. The internet is pistol-whipping citizens, who are handing over their wallets and jewels. My spirit is not as resilient as it used to be. I'm pointing my ear-hole towards the poverty-ambassadors. I'm giving fresh clean socks to every legitimate panhandler I can find.