Poems Quotes

And let me talk to you about his eyes. Because this boy? He had eyes like you wouldn't believe. I don't want to be cliché - sighing softly like a schoolgirl - but the thought of him is enough. You see, this boy, his eyes change - and I don't mean like magic; I'm talking about science. It is in his design to be beautiful, and breath-taking, and a slaughterer of all coherent thought. Because in the dim light of early morning, when the sky is indigo and street lights shine, his eyes are hazel - they are molten gold and the sweetest chocolate, and I see tides of mantis green each time the light catches him. And then they are green, just green; fantastic, brilliant shades of pistachio and clean cut grass that insult every rainforest in existence. Oh! And oh, how could I forget when I met him? That beautiful day; where his eyes were wide and so, so blue; gorgeous electric shades that ranged from the sky to fields of cornflower. I stared at him - got lost in his depth, and then I fell hard like Alice; I fell and I became breathless at what I had discovered. straight away, I knew that This boy was not magic, but he was most definitely special.
Je me crois en enfer, donc j'y suis.
I believe I am in Hell, and so I am there.


I'm choking on These words that tangle around my tongue and refuse to leave my mouth.
Poor little Amelie dances through meadowed snow and calm, soft lavender. She laughs as diamond dust floats above her hair, and catches snowflakes on her tongue. Little Amelie plays games by herself, as other children are scarce in such a village. Perhaps Father will play? Ponders Amelie, prior to dismissing such a silly notion. No, Father would not play - not now, not ever again. Father is often sad - has a face made of stony concrete - and does not speak. He does not have time for silly little games. He does not have time for silly little girls either.

Sometimes, when the night is vast and Amelie is restless, she will wait outside of Father's door. And she will hear him crying before he dresses for the day - although, in the eyes of Amelie, the day has not yet even begun. Amelie worries that this is the average life of an adult - fearful and upsetting, with short days and cold, long nights.

One day, Amelie decides to try and live the life of an adult. She rises at six, as the sun begins to paint the horizon in streaks of pale silver, and she pulls on her boots.

She does not come back for hours, and Father is livid when she returns - hours past sunset - and for some time she is worried he may strike her like Sister Abigail. Instead, he falls to his knees and grasps her face - so hard it would hurt if not for the look upon his face, which is cracking like plaster and becoming rather wet. He pulls her to his chest, runs a hand down her back, and whispers soft words into her hair. Amelie is confused, because she had just tried to be an adult - had succeeded rather well, she thinks - and yet Father is still sad? She does not know how to make him not-sad. But still, Father kisses her face all over, looks at her for some time - he seems tired - and then he smiles, small and crooked. Amelie startles, because...

Well, because Father is smiling. And Amelie has forgotten this face...

Such a lovely gift, this is, because suddenly Father has pulled Amelie onto his shoulders, and then they are amongst fields of virgin snow and poignant lavender. The sky breaks open and blesses them with frozen rain, and Father smiles again. He falls into the snow, makes angels with Amelie and catches snowflakes on his tongue. What a day! They build snowmen, and Father lends his scarf to a small snowman with a large carrot for a nose. They retire as the day brightens, from black to blue, and Sandman sprinkles stardust into their eyes. She is gone, to Dreamland - with snow and lavenders, and, best of all, Father smiling. When Amelie wakes, Father is still asleep, and he does not look quite so sad.

And this girl, she has a face straight outta f.ucking magazine. With smudged freckles and mercurial eyes, she cannot be compared to anything else in existence. I took the same bus everyday, for two months, before I even spoke to her - and God, was it worth it. She spoke real loud, and her teeth were weird in the best kind of way - all gappy at the sides and crammed in the front. Every day, I took that bus, and every day I talked to her - about the weather, the news, and eventually myself. She had six brothers and two sisters - all older - and she didn't really like her home; it was boring, nothing ever happened and no one ever cared. I told her I did, and something went of like a rocket, I know, because she smiled so bright the sun cried in envy. Fast forward two months and I'm walking her home, getting off that bus 10 miles from where I live. Still, i'll say it was worth the while.
you know what i like
sipping this
smoking this
babe you are my lovely hallucination.
dont ever let me go.
you're my medicine
you are what i like

they danced around the maypole
pretty girls with long, golden hair
that whipped within the wind
their dresses, long, blended into
a haze of pale chiffon,
in shades of chrysanthemum, and all laughed, with wide, open mouths
all save for little agatha, who saw no joy in summertime
People need to understand that mental health is much more important than academic or financial wealth. I cannot gloat that my family is rich, or that i am sheer brilliance in the eyes of scholars. I am not rich, probably never will be, and I am average at just about everything I do. But I didn't particularly mind, because I was happy with who I was. And then suddenly school became much harder, with stricter teachers and shorter deadlines. Teachers suddenly took my innocent misunderstandings as incompetence, and revelled in pubicaly humiliating me to the point of tears. I was branded as "dramatic" or "too sensitive" because I cried whilst being called a "revolting liar". Suddenly I couldn't afford text books and was laughed at for being "the poor kid", children openly asking "why are you poor?" even though i didn't know I was - I was clothed and fed, but soon I learnt that in school "poor" meant you couldn't buy yourself gifts whenever you liked. it became too much; I started crying between classes, hiding in deserted bathrooms to throw up until I was fifteen minutes late for French; was told I was "quelle perte de temps idiote" by a man who was meant to encourage, simply because I had forgotten the difference between "de dessous" and "de dessus". I was no longer happy. I started to self destruct; would rip the skin of my knuckles to distract myself from the oncoming slaughter of not knowing the right answer. I started to become angry at my supposed poverty, and all the taunts I received just because I didn't have a phone. I visibly shook in crowded hallways, and then one day I refused to go. My mother tried to force me, and I cried with snot running down my chin, begging "Please, I can't go. I want to but I can't". This lasted for an hour, until she noticed I had started to subconsciously tear the skin of my forearms, creating large red welts that distracted me from the tightness of my chest. I didn't go that day. A week later I had to see a doctor who would stare at my face and ask dumb questions - she told me I had all of these problems before writing a list of prescriptions eight pages long - fluoxetine, diazepam, ferrous sulfate, all these drugs - just so I could function. None of them particularly help, and Now I'm nothing. I'm not rich, or smart, and I'm definitely not happy.
I once knew a girl - Elizabeth - and she had auburn hair and insipid eyes. She and I would play by the river, but one day she did not show. I waited - for seven weeks - until one day she washed up, with mottled skin and hair that smelt of freshwater.

I was invited to the funeral; the only child there. I did not want to go. I did not want to see Elizabeth dead; I did not want to acknowledge a dead Elizabeth at all. But still I went, and kept my head low, as townspeople came forth to pray for a little girl they had never met. I ignored her open casket, and did not once glance at her falsely tanned face. When they lowered her into the ground, I promptly vomited into the wilting grass.

It has been twelve weeks, and Elizabeth is still in the ground. I visit her everyday, and tuck baby's breath into the grass (although how I wish I could tuck it into her hair).

I once knew a girl, and she will never grow old, or grey. My mother tells me this is life.

daylight spills from the gaps of your fingers
it flows between the spaces within your veins
and it pours from your mouth with every word you speak
People You Might Like
  • briyawnna*
  • Jesusismysunshine
  • Suspect Device*
  • Steve
  • gabikk
  • justkiddiing
  • GhostTown
Newest Wittians
  • beautyandthebeast02
  • xBentliee
  • Casandraa07
  • roro11111red
  • yougame
  • xaliiroox