There is a romantic inside my head
but he’s not playing the violin.
He’s breaking the strings and has broken the bow,
He’s a verse of discordant notes
dying to sound melodious.

You’re an artifice,
A face among the blur of desire

I keep on reading your message saying sorry to me, over and over. It’s as if everything depends on that. Whether you meant for what happened to or not decides whether I should still want you because the fact is…I still do.

I have lied

I have pushed away those I love

I have wanted revenge

and wanted those who have hurt me to feel the same pain

even if they didn’t mean to

I have turned away from people and wanted people to not do that to me when I needed them

I have put pressure on those I care about

I have ridiculous expectations

I have been judgemental and unexcusing

and I have taken advantage of situations

I have the capacity to love immensely but I have been desperate and obsessiveness too

There were times when I didn’t intervene when I should have

Times when I put myself before others

but even more times I put others before myself, incessantly

I have disappeared from people’s lives and reappeared when I felt like it

I have said some hurtful things

I did a lot to try to fit in with others

and I joined in with things I shouldn’t have which I have every reason to know how it feels to be at the receiving end,

I gave into peer pressure

Sometimes I do too much for others

and too little for myself

I let people walk all over me before if it’s not over then it’s away from me,

I fear loneliness, my closest companion.

I love ideals more than truths and my head is constantly above clouds.

I work excessively and take things too seriously

I have been very superficial,

I have taken my problems out on others and I have taken my problems out on myself over and over and over all because I didn’t think it was okay to make mistakes. 

I’m not perfect and it’s okay to be that way. It’s okay to be that way. Acceptance is the first step, the best way. 

odditoreum:

michaelfaudet:

Sunday In Newport by Michael Faudet

I’m pretty sure I’ve reblogged this Sunday Story recently but that doesn’t matter! The weather and season is perfectly this and I might just make marshmallows later..

They dropped their heads back and felt a rushed shimmering ticke in their sockets
because Mars, Venus, Jupiter, Saturn or even meteorites were all soldiers wading through water,
like our smallest fingers dragged
wavy across streams to carve
haste promises made with
the mirrors we tried to scratch.

I live in the past.
I let go, as they told me to

of the present
of the future.

lettersto-savemyself:

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