Yeah

Yeah. Because I don’t really know what to write but I want to write anyway and “yeah” was the first word that came to mind. I don’t want to write something about you but every time I write, I still end up writing something about you. Fact or fiction, it’s still about you. And sometimes I feel that “You” is overrated and you are overrated too. And I hate how I cannot find a synonym for “you” because it’s just really you. And I hate it even more that this post ended up talking about not talking about you. So yeah.

Date A Girl Who Writes

You’ll never die when you date a girl who writes for you will always be alive in her stories..

Thought Catalog

Date a girl who writes. Date a girl who understands both the simplicity and the depth of the written word. Date a girl who lists one of her heroes as a philosopher or poet. Date a girl who writes because she is a born storyteller.

You’ll learn that the only way she knows what she’s thinking or feeling is through writing. She’ll be articulate and poetic, without the slightest ego.

The girl who writes will have a collection of lists at any given time, not only to-do lists, but life lists; a bucket list, a list of her favorite things, a list of quotes that inspire her.

As a writer she will be a natural listener. So tell her stories. You will begin to recognize what’s important to her or what she wonders about through her writing. She finds writing the only way to explore some of life’s greatest mysteries…

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Okay and 68 More Words to Hurt You

Image

He said, “goodbye.”
She said, “okay.”
“I did not even love you.
You were just a hallucination produced by
taking too much love songs.
You were just an imagination crafted in my mind.
We were just actors role playing a perfect fairytale.
Convincing each other about the happy ever after that we’re heading.
But this lie we fed ourselves with was exposed.
This happy ever after crushed us.
Maybe goodbye was our ever after.” She ended.
This was how okay and 68 more words hurt them.

June, alone.

You don’t know how rain feels in June.
How it feels gloomy when gray clouds start to cover the clear skies.
You don’t hear how thunder reacts after lightning passes through the heavens.
You don’t see how the children play in the rain and how happy they are holding each others’ hands while singing and laughing.
You don’t smell the scent of the grass covered with raindrops.
You don’t touch them.
You don’t know.
Because you’re not here.

How this introvert introduced herself

She’s fond of looking at the stars and starts bringing life to them through her writings.
It’s when in silence that she starts shouting. A lady with a timid personality but also
a jolly alter ego within. It’s not that music is her escape because it’s a part of her
world. And if she can, she’ll put music in little jars and adorn her house
with it. You’ll see her contributing her art to this world and she’s hoping you’ll be amazed by it.This introduction is short but enough to get you a glimpse of her galaxy.

Too Poetic

5:30 AM

Van

From house to somewhere (but not over the rainbow).

I was sitting by the window.

I could have plugged in my earphones and entered another universe but I did not.

Instead, I wrote something.

It was not poetic.

It’s as simple as, ” I was sitting by the window. I could have plugged in my earphones and entered another universe but i did not.”

But it was a poetry of its own without being cryptic.

Without pen and paper, with just words jumbled in my mind, I knew I wrote something.

It need not to be beautifully written.

It just needs to be written, to be laid out, to be read or not be read at all.

I am sure. I am writing.

Dear fellow writer

Dear Fellow Writer,

I don’t know you personally, I don’t even know you at all. I just heard some bad things about you from a friend who doesn’t like you so maybe, I’ll hate you like how this friend hates you. I don’t really like to use the H word, it’s exerts such a strong emotion comparable to killing but I don’t know what word to use so I’ll just ‘hate’ you but not too much.

I know your existence, you know mine, we don’t care. Couldn’t care less, we’re strangers. I developed this little hate towards you and I know it’s unfair but I know you wouldn’t even care. It’s funny how “little” plus hate do not match but it’s perfect, i guess.

You’re a fellow artist in this field, so I guess I’ll be giving you a chance. It’s also funny how I’m still trying to convince myself that I don’t like you just because you use words too flowery that I can make the Garden of Eden out of it. You use thoughts too deep that I feel embarrassed for the Pacific Ocean.You’re like all rainbows and butterflies, and all pot full of gold. I don’t know what to feel anymore. I do not admire you, but maybe a little bit or my mind is still processing whether to like you or still hate you a little bit.

I have read some of your works. I don’t hate it, I am not intimidated either. I think it’s good.. good enough to make me write something about you. I think I don’t hate you a little bit anymore.Can we be friends and write something beautiful?

Love,
Your Fellow Writer

i’m not writing anything about you

No, I’m not not writing anything about you. I‘m not even thinking or blinking or breathing but maybe i’ll still be breathing cause i’ll die if i don’t.*deep breath*. Know whether to still write anything about you.. don’t even know that i’m writing. You don’t even know it’s about you. Yes, it’s not just about the skies being blue or the lies being true or the police finding a clue. Honey, it’s all about you! and when I say honey, it’s not about the honey that a bee finds, it’s not the tree that kids climb, it’s not about someone being blind. It’s about you running around in my mind, running around in my thoughts. I thought i have caught you but i have been caught, i fought, but lost and now i’m lost.. for words. And all I can do is sigh, i’m not high, i’m just trying not to write a single thing about you. I don’t want to think of what words to use, what paper to choose, what poet to beat, or what thought to plagiarize.. again.. just to write something beautiful. and you don’t even notice. I am not his. Not hers, not yours.. anymore.

And the more words i write, the more it becomes a ranting. So many things to do rather than writing something about you. I’m neither broke nor brokenhearted, But maybe I’m brokenhearted. Did not digest that thought just ingested and ingested until I was choked. So I’ll make myself breathe again. I’ll forget those ABCs that turned to ILYs that turned to WTFs and when I reach the E-N-D, then I’ll have to S-T-A-R-T to 123 and skip Y-O-U. This doesn’t make sense any longer. B-Y-E.
I have written many things about you before. I’m not writing anything about you anymore.