Where the Sun and Moon Meet by Mythiica, literature
Literature
Where the Sun and Moon Meet
Title: Where the Sun and Moon Meet
Fandom: None
Character: None
Genre: Angst, letting go
Warnings: Suicide trigger (attempted)
There is a street in front of me.
Cars speed past me on their way to the festival that is just across the road.
If I time myself right, I can walk into oncoming traffic… and see my brother again.
I can give him these years back. I don’t want them; they aren’t mine.
I take a small step forward, and then shuffle across the cement until I am standing in the middle of the road, waiting for a car.
As one approaches, I wonder what will happen. Will th
true love is slow to anger. by Bat-Clawz, literature
Literature
true love is slow to anger.
Her grace was an enigma, a fog.
Leaving him completely lost when it came to how and who she was.
And yet, she adored him.
This woman, whom left him completely dumbfounded, stars in his eyes and all.
This woman—
Loved him.
He pressed his fingers to his lips and mouthed the words, just so he could feel them against his skin.
‘she loves me’
‘she loves me’
--loves me
--loves me
Love.
Drives everyone, whether it be for good or ill.
The love he and this woman shared was a good love.
A true love.
‘my dear,’ she whispers, touching his cheek. ‘my love for you burns brighter than the sun.
i hear the thunder rolling in by Khaimin, literature
Literature
i hear the thunder rolling in
sweet smell of cut grass floating through the window,
soft sound of cars passing by
and distant music pumping through speakers
strong and quick, the backbone of the wind,
carrying voices and laughter from three floors down;
and i can't see it but i imagine the way the world is turning,
churning, people moving like ants -
so insignificant but so significant to me, a nail in the coffin
of the universe and the a holy grail of what is yet to come.
hot tea and beeping microwaves frame the day
and soft blankets whisper gently over bedsheets,
sleep-time now, phones down eyes closed,
take a moment to lose yourself in the
beauty of the day
(sun
you don't want to be a waterfall by Khaimin, literature
Literature
you don't want to be a waterfall
it's a certain kind of people that when you hurt them it's like the world ends,
tears crashing like waves on a sandy shore of dry
cheeks and angry lips. they break your heart like
they broke your soul, no sense of self left for the person they used to be,
used to seem to be when they were all butterflies and rainbows
shattered by a storm, non-stop anger.
some people are like waterfalls, crashing - loud - ringing - in - your - ears noise all around,
shrouded in mist and fighting over everything for time
to keep ticking no matter what might be happening
in the back of their head, fighting for you and them
and the whole fucking world. some
The Fool | Vicious by JustABrokenSpirit, literature
Literature
The Fool | Vicious
vacant. then the raven never flitting still
is sitting, still is sitting, and you watch the eyes of the
cold antagonist. oh what a snake he became but was he not
intrinsically venom? why would you ever choose to follow
original sin at its finest? a fool’s error, a fool’s love yet
under the moon he held a different smile and there! that was the
smile encouraging your most noble sacrifice.
(a comic moment in his grand finale)
Title: Violin
Fandom: None
Character: Undisclosed
Genre: Personal
Warnings: Feels/Possible Trigger (Read description before if you have an worries)
Intended for: Anyone
Other comments: ~
He plays me like he plays that stupid violin.
Pull me out of my dusty, velvet case, tune me to the perfect pitch, and make me sing. But then, he never forgets to stow me back in my container when he is done using me. He ushers me back to the deepest, darkest corners of the closet, closes the door until next year, and leaves the room without a single word.
In my solitude, I age like a ripe fruit left out in the sun too long. Mold grows
brown eyes are hard to romanticize. by pansydiv, literature
Literature
brown eyes are hard to romanticize.
"the more i think of our childhood the more i can read in his eyes, oh god his eyes, those warm brown soothing eyes, all steady and dependable like the bark of a tree or wooden floors or that treehouse his father made for us when we were six. i think of his sister’s rooftop garden and the pretty flowers that grew all in knots and braids; roses, chrysanthemums, ivy, marigold, peonies and bluebells all spilling over and outlining the horizon standing all polychromatic against the sky- and i think that without the rich brown soil all gathered in terracotta flowerpots they wouldn’t have developed half as well, they would be haggard wi