trying to learn the art of writing.

The child within us weeps on marble headstones

pallid wilting flowers, scattered plume of wreaths harpsichord of heartbeats waltz on grey day sands

I whispered

Whatever your soul is made of my darling - mine is made of the same stuff

I've heard so much about mending broken hearts, with time, with love, with the right person

but I never hear about the hearts that are so shattered they can never fit back together

I never hear about the hearts that have been betrayed and tormented countless times

I never hear about how guarded and closed off our hearts become, and how truly nothing feels as though it can break through

I never hear about how deep, whirl wind, soul tied love feels impossible - is my heart even capable anymore ?

f a l l i n g

through life, rather than living

the thought of my only goal to be to get to the end of the day

the week

the month

merely being alive, rather than truly living

How can every thing change but really it all feels the same

to loving a narcissist, someone angry, a user

if I lost weight, took up running, wore a waist trainer

I have potential

if I doll up my face, curl my hair, get my eyelashes done

I have potential

if I flaunt my tits and wear short skirts

suck up to men and bat my eyelashes

moan during sex and fake my orgasms

I have potential

but I am, myself, raw and plain and tired

Waiting is unlike anything else. The creeping feeling up your soul, reminding you that not yet; it it coming, but not arrived. There is still more to come.

No. Pain tears us down, wears us thin and dangles happiness before us before ripping it away. Whoever thought that pain is a door for joy does not know true despair. They has never crumpled underneath the worlds weight, and felt less significant to the ones they love than the dirt beneath their feet.

But it reminds me of home

Your person is home

You want to be their home

And you want to build a home with them

We are not born to die!!

A song doesn't start just to finish, and a book doesn't open just to close! The feeling of freedom as we belt out the chorus, that is what makes the song worth singing!! The tears we choke back in chapter thirteen, that is what makes a book worth reading!!

We will die, of course, but death is not why we were born. To die is NOT why we were born.

My love we were born to laugh and to love and to cry!!

and you realise the great symphonies you conducted will fall silent, your battles will be untold, and all your loved ones forgotten,

when you come to understand you even more momentary than a mere photon, shooting through our galaxy,