You know what? Fuck you *lets it linger* *looks back in anger* *goes back to the old house*

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@hauntedprinter
You know what? Fuck you *lets it linger* *looks back in anger* *goes back to the old house*

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I'm tired of hanging on to anger that has no where to go. god, I'm so tired.
We finally found what was left of you

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I don't even know if you're in the same house
or if you'd care if I wasn't.
you can't pick.
you don't have a choice.
write and write
you'll die otherwise
Love dries up
like dam in the tropics
leaving mud and muck
and the sun it burns
it burns
The answer is almost always: 'I feel lonely.'
and the follow up question then becomes: 'what would make you not feel lonely?'
What would make you not feel lonely?
What would make you not feel lonely?
Is that even possible?
Funny, I guess.
How quickly you become the villian when someone wants to believe they are the hero.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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wounds. I guess. a hole that throbs. a void that swallows. A desire that can never be filled. They didn't tell me your soul can hurt too.
I didn't know. How was I supposed to know?
Things that you love can break your heart.
Someone tell me what happiness feels like
Time moves ever onward
we can never go back
idk. I wouldn't call myself a poet but it doesn't really seem that hard to make.
-Instapoetry

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Somewhere in the absence of thought, grasping at whites, spurred on by the tails of repeating phrases, in the blankness of things long buried and long since forgotten.
Like an unmarred canvas put aside as if waiting for some inspiration, then stored for a later time, before passed on to someone else be to more useful, the motivation which impulse yearned for a beautiful scenery long since dissolved into the minutes of the year, then five.
All of that, which was meant to be conveyed swallowed into nothingness.
Somewhere in the absence of thought, the impression lives only in the silence of the unspoken.
I'd come to realise, like a pebble dropping into a river with a plink, sending ripples in pulses that last only a moment, without ever disrupting the ever-speeding current underneath.
I was a storyteller. A dreamer, a talker, a creative.
However, words were never my friend.
I was a storyteller, but I was never a writer.