âSometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside â remembering all the times you've felt that way.â â Charles Bukowski
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âSometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside â remembering all the times you've felt that way.â â Charles Bukowski

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Nobody knows what you want "EXCEPT YOU".
IG- grow_your_words
Chocolate is my therapy.
And then one moment we share our hands in holding and I am engrossed with a feeling that cannot be explainedâ maybe the stars know what I am speaking of.
Mars Kneale
Love Letter #618
If I wrote you a love letter, it would start out like a country song. Iâd say you remind me of the moon, full of the light I need. Iâd tell you that you are cool like the night, and you soothe me. That I need you to rest easy. To dream. Iâd say the days with you are like long rides thru winding roads. That I canât get there fast enough when Iâm coming for you. Iâd say you are brighter than the neon in our favorite place. That your smile warms my heart, like the fireplace we cuddle next to. That you take care of me in a way that is music to my heart. I want to wake up next to you. Everyday. Every day. How I want to be what you want, because thatâs what I want. That I miss you when youâre not here, and will kiss you when you are. Iâd say you are mine and I am yours then, now, forever. As long as I live. How real love never goes away. Never dies, even if I do. If I wrote you a love letter, Iâd tell you all this.

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So Today
So today, Iâm not gonna let someone being angry, make me angry.
So today, Iâm gonna do what I want, and not what I donât.
So today, Iâm not gonna worry about yesterday or tomorrow.
So today, Iâm gonna be my best me, not the best me someone else expects.
Itâs finally about me.
Selfish? Maybe.
But, Iâm the one that has my time left, whether it be short or long. It is my time.
And I ainât got time to worry bout things.
Except what I want.
Sounds simple doesnât it?
And it should be.
Me.
You know, Iâve forgotten you. Just like I said I would. Unless of course, someone mentions your name. Then I remember. But, I have forgotten you. Yes I have. Until our song comes on. Then maybe not. Besides that, I have forgotten you, just like I told you. Except when I look in the mirror, and donât see you behind me, then maybe I think of you. Only then though. Not often. I forgot you. Maybe you could count the times I called your number, or almost texted, but that was only late at night. That doesnât matter, right? Because I forgot you. Yes I have forgotten all about youâŚ.
Bottled Up
I kept it all bottled up. Then, what should have been tiny drops of rain, poured out like a river. They were inside too long. I kept them hidden, so no one would know. And I nearly drowned myself.
She Wondered
She wondered, âwhat would it be like?ââ¨To go unnoticed. What would that feel like to walk among the people and not get stared at by everyone? Ogled. What would it be like to be free? Free of the beauty that restricts her. Free of the chains that come with a face that ties her to everyone. â¨She wondered, âwhat would it be like?ââ¨To have a love. A love that loved her for her, not her beauty. A love that would get to know her, take the time to know her for her. A love that she could love back, and talk to, and hold. Hold close to her. A love that would close their eyes when they kissed her. Not stare in disbelief. â¨She wondered, âwhat would it be like?ââ¨To be free. To do the things that others do. To be able to listen and watch others without being put up on a platform, a stage. To admire without being admired. To sing without being sung to. To love without being loved. To earn her way, without being given. All because sheâs pretty. All because sheâs so pretty. â¨She wondered, âwhat would it be like?â
I was born twice: The first time when I came to the world, the second when I met you.
Cha-writer

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There are no more tracks on how many loops around the world Iâve done at this time to act as if I was a traveler from another dimension, brought to lift shoulders and steal pain from palms that chose not their fate. As someone who feels deeply, outside of this epiphany - on the writings - dedicated to souls on their backs and stuck expressions with tall tales, I canât help the want to grasp their face and achingly ask why. It is something I canât figure out myself, but I can see the hope in some of their eyes that it will be seen. That person isnât me, you know - to save them. Although I will help along the way. The secret is this⌠Eyes that focus with love and desire, can save just about anything, maybe even anyone. Even if you are looking in mirrors.
awinterkissx | your reflection on my frames.
A love that consumes my whole, so I am swallowed by the earth and that is where I remain; itâs core,
Mars Kneale
She is beautiful in a way that makes people forget what they were going to say when they look at her.
Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven
Weâre all damaged in our own way. Nobodyâs perfect. I think we are all somewhat screwy, every single one of us.
Johnny Depp (via wnq-movies)
Above all, donât lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (via fyp-philosophy)

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There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wifeâs right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someoneâs right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. There is no act more wretched than stealing.
Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
Isnât it odd how much fatter a book gets when youâve read it several times? As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smellsâŚand then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flowerâŚboth strange and familiar.
Cornelia Funke, Inkspell