Joined: December 25, 2011
Last Seen: 2 years
user id: 255407
Gender: F

Quotes by Hale_Storm18


You are thirteen.
Your hair is long and brown
and you still wear it braided.
You dress in pink
and write poetry in art class
on paper towels with pink Sharpie.
You think you are wise.
You want to be loved.
You dream of bridges, and flying.

You are fourteen.
You hair is black,
dyed in a river, in a sink, between
your ribs.
You wear black
and draw on all your jeans
with black Sharpie in music class.
You think you are cruel.
You want to be sharper.
You dream of bridges, and falling.

You are fifteen.
our hair is dyed black in a salon
with purple streaks.
You wear chains
and clothes that do not fit.
You write suicide notes on your arms
with black ink in math class.
The teacher calls your parents.
You think you are interesting.
You want to be dead.
You dream of bridges, and sharp rocks below.

You are sixteen.
Your hair is brown again,
loose around your shoulders.
You hide behind long bangs.
You wear clothes that are too big
and gummy bracelets, bunched together
under your sleeves.
You keep your poetry on paper now.
You show your mother what you’ve
Even the cries for help she finds
You think you are no one.
You want to breathe again.
You dream of bridges, and melting wood planks.

You are seventeen.
You wear your hair up,
out of your face,
with pencils stuck in it.
You wear clothes that fit,
thick sweaters, skirts.
You post your poetry online
and make friends who understand.
You write stories about planets
falling in love,
emotions that change
the entire galaxy,
that make it look as if
the sky is blushing.
You think you are healing.
You want to feel again.
You dream of bridges, and letting your sadness jump.

You are eighteen.
Your hair is long and red
and you wear it braided.
You wear dresses,
floral prints,
soft fabrics,
things that make you sigh
and think of sleeping.
You still write on your skin sometimes
but you can control yourself now
and you never write anything
that makes you think of darkness.
You buy expensive journals
and fill them up,
no longer afraid of your words.
You teach yourself languages.
You don’t think of yourself as alone.
You think you will survive.
You know you are right.
You dream of bridges, and what waits on the other side.

to the people who said it was just a phase: you were right. // megan virginia


your name is EVE and you live in the GARDEN of EDEN.
Your life is PRETTY GRAND and you WANT for NOTHING,
and all you taste is SWEET;
still, you feel as though there is MORE.
What will you choose - BLISS or FREEDOM?


Your name is HELEN and you live in the KINGDOM of BATTLES
still, your KISS is heavy with WAR and not LOVE
You’ve been careful your whole life, and there is no REWARD
What will you choose - PEACE or FREEDOM?


Your name is GUINEVERE and you live in a HOLY LAND
Your PAST is worth a PENNY and your PRESENT worth a CROWN,
still, all that’s YOURS is only YOURSELF.
Your husband has no use for it, but it is all you have to GIVE.
What will you choose - FAITH or FREEDOM?


Your name is OPHELIA and you live in NOTHINGNESS
Everything is FALLEN APART and everything is LOST.
still, men talk of a HAPPY END.
What will you choose - HOPE or FREEDOM?


Your name is SUSAN and you do not live in NARNIA
You were once a SAVIOR and a WARRIOR
and now they say you are JUST a GIRL. They are WRONG. You have never been ‘just’ anything.
What will you choose - NOSTALGIA or FREEDOM?




When the apocalypse comes, Jesus asks you to dinner. Jesus is the son of your mother’s best friend; naturally, you cannot say no. He’s five minutes late in picking you up, bites his thumb in supplication, and you want to press him against the leather seats of Jesus’ dad’s Cadillac. You’ve been on worse dates. The company’s decent, the séx phenomenal, except there is no séx and you’re left wondering why you thought there would be. This is not how you pictured the end of the world. Somewhere, a door slams. Your neighbors are filing for divorce. Jesus walks you to your door with his hand above your waist. He kisses you and time unravels, a ball of yarn torn between opposing knitting needles. Crabapples. Jesus tastes like crabapples and the final stanza of “Amazing Grace.” God calls, asks Jesus when he’ll be home. The sky is orange. At the end of your mother’s driveway, your mother’s best friend’s son’s car radio narrates the coming of the savior: This is Delilah. Avert thy mortal eyes.

Brianna Albers, "Delilah"


“...and maybe greatness isn’t about being popular or heroic, maybe it’s about just fighting for the greater good for the world even when the world turns back on you.”



“Too many young girls don’t know how to act when someone’s being inappropriate with them. They giggle or they try to brush it off. Don’t do that. Tell them to go fúck themselves - be a bítch. If someone’s being disrespectful to you, be disrespectful right back. Show them the same amount of respect that they show you.”


Complete in blue or black ink. Blood will count as extra credit. Only lies told through a clenched jaw will be graded. You have until the end of Tuesday’s thunderstorm to complete.

1. How do you bring yourself back from the dead?
A) Swallow the heart of the last person you thought she loved.
B) Take the yellow pill off her tongue.
C) Douse yourself in kerosene. Give her the match.
D) Her hands.

2. Use 5 in a sentence to describe the destruction of her mouth:
Euphoria / Appetite / Absolution / Gossamer / Palpitation / Wretched / Celestial / Bloodthirsty

3. If on the 24th of November, she says your name for the first time with her teeth on your throat and you are on your 9th cigarette, how many more will you have to smoke before you can breathe again?
Answer in the form of heartbeats per minute.

4. True or false:
i. The night tastes different now that you have tasted her mouth.
ii. She has the combination to your nightmares.
iii. A girl with eyes like those can be trusted.
iv. Her favorite song sounds a lot like how she owns you.
v. This is a good idea.
vi. She wants to stop the bleeding.
vii. She opened the wound in the first place.

5. Complete the sentence: She said that you are-
A) That feeling you get when summer fades to autumn and the world slows down just enough to catch a glimpse of everything that’s been promised to you.
B) Hers.

--“POP QUIZ POETY” by kat myers and e.m.


Can you hear me, or is my sound just off? Do they choose not to take heed, or am I just not speaking loud enough? Is this message overlooked because it did not come with a bird attached in its thought? Or in the form of a glorious book? They didn’t find this message burning in a bush, scripture, or novel, neither did it come in a bottle.

This message is not a product of thousands petitioning, neither did a million men march until their feet were blistering, nor did it spurt forth from the mouth of a corpse. Cause when we was young we was told the revolution would not be televised, so we had to improvise, so we put that sh
ít on the net and watch it get digitalised.

Right now, there is a kid finishing parents' evening in a heated discussion with his mother, saying, why does he have to study subjects he will never ever use in his life?

And she will look at him blanked eyed, stifle a sigh, think for a second, and then lie. She’ll say something along the lines of: “You know to get a good job you need a good degree, and these subjects will help you get a degree, we never had this opportunity when I was younger".

And he will reply: “But you were young a long time ago, weren’t you mum?”

And she won’t respond, although what he implies makes perfect sense, that societies needs would have changed since he was 16. But she will ignore him, grip his hand more sternly, then drag him to the car. What she doesn’t know, is that she didn’t ignore him, just to shut him up. She didn’t lie because they are just returning him from parents' evening and an argument in the hallway would look bad on her resume. She won’t lie because she had just spent the last one hour convincing a stern faced teacher that she would ensure that her child studies more at home. No! She will lie, simply, because she, does not know any better herself. Although her whole adult life, she has never used or applied Pythagoras' theorem, pathetic fallacy, and still does not know the value of “X”.

She will rely on society to tell her that her child, who has one of the sharpest mind in the school, is hyperactive, unfocused, easily distracted, and wayward.


How many equations, subjects and dates did you memorize, just before an exam, never to use again? How many “A” grades did you get, which were never asked for when you applied for a job? How many times have you remembered something, 5 minutes just after the teacher said “Stop writing”, only to receive your results one month later to realize that you were only 1 mark short of the top grade? Does that mean remembering 5 minutes earlier, would’ve made you more qualified for a particular job? Well on an application form it would’ve.

We all have different abilities, thought processes, experiences, and genes, so why is a class full of individuals, tested by the same means? So that means Cherrelle thinks she’s dumb, because she couldn’t do a couple sums.

And if this issue is not addressed properly it then becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Then every school has the audacity to have a policy on equality. Huh, the irony!

Exams are society’s methods of telling you what you’re worth, but you can’t let society tell you what you are cause this is the same society that tells you that ab
órtion is wrong, but then looks down on teenage parents!
The same society that sells products to promote natural hair, looks, and smooth complexion, with the model on the box, half photoshopped, and has fake lashes and hair extensions.
With pastors that preach charity, but own private jets.
Imams that preach against greed, but are all fat.
Parents that say they want “educated kids”, but constantly marvel at how rich Richard Branson is.
Governments that preach peace, but endorse war. That say they believe so much in the importance of higher education and further learning -- Then why increase tuition fees every single year?

I believed Miss Jefferson, when she took me into the office and said that my exams would be imperative to my success because we were taught to always follow when Miss Jefferson led. Then I took Jefferson out of the equation and learned to think for myself. I realized we were taught to always follow when Mis-Led.

Huh, the irony!

Test us with tests, but the finals are never final because they never prepare us for the biggest test which is survival! And what I suggest is fairly outlandish, so I don’t expect everyone to understand this except for the kids who know what it feels like to be worth no more than that D or that A that you get on results day.

And the ones whose best stories were never good enough for your English teacher because apparently you missed out, key literal techniques, did not follow the class plan, and the language was too “informal” for him to understand. But then he’d reference Hamlet and Macbeth, and you’d fight the urge to express your contempt by partially clenching your fist with only your medius finger left protruding in the middle of your hand and asking if he was aware that Shakespeare was known as the innovator of slang.

Or the kid at the back of the class, who thinks: “Why am I studying something that doesn’t fuel my drive?” But then, when confronted with a maths problem, his eyes come alive.

So this one is for my generation: the ones who found what they were looking for on Google, the ones who followed their dreams on Twitter, pictured their future on Instagram, accepted destiny on Facebook. This one’s for my “failures” and “dropouts”, for my unemployed graduates, my shop assistants, cleaners and cashiers with bigger dreams, my self-employed entrepreneurs, my world-changers and my dream-chasers!

Cause the purpose of “Why I hate school, but love education” was not to initiate a worldwide debate, but to let them know that whether 72 or 88, 44 or 68, we will not, let exam results, decide our fate.

i want trees instead of gravestones and nothing to confess. i got a soft spot for your ancient books of horror stories. 



with an accent of blood
who speaks in foreign tongues
whose vowels are the sound of metal clashing

with fire in her veins
and armor beneath her skin
who crushes earth beneather her feet

hair streaked with daggers
and iron filling her lungs
each breath ivitingly toxic

with lips made of glass
and voice cut from steel
features born from thunder and battle

a grin made for war
and eyes flecked with ash
striding, powerful, into the arms of death

perhaps she will be the one you follow into battle [t.r.]

i. you have never been one for loyalty or pure, unbridled faith but you see her one spring day and something about the steely strength in her eyes her gentle, commanding words opens a gaping fissure in your chest, an arcane ache that only lessens in her presence. she walks away from you that first time and a voiceless chant begins to echo in your ears follow, follow, follow.

ii. you follow. you find yourself, more and more, trying to ease the weight of her burdens. she starts to expect your presence, rely on your counsel– she commands, you comply she questions, you reply. over time you learn to breathe in time with her heartbeat, know her joys and sorrows as deeply as your own. you let her reach for your hand when the pain is too great and treasure every fleeting smile she sends your way.

iii. she is a wonder to you whether she is faltering or fearless, whether she is lost or lordly— oh, you love her all the same. you do not ask for more than you deserve, no, you dare not presume for she is a queen and you are no consort but sometimes, when she thinks you cannot see her gaze upon you is tender, so very sweet that you cannot help your quiet hope.

iv. you stand by her in times of great beauty and times of great grief, you are there for her triumphs and her crushing defeats. you cannot tell if you love her more when she is a sunlit blaze on the battlefield, exuding an unattainable, otherworldly grace or when she heaves a sigh after a long day, runs calloused fingers through her hair, weariness lining her face (but then your love never truly fluctuates.)

v. she holds your hand as the stars fall and again as the world burns. you grasp her like a lifeline every time and ignore your hungering heart. enough, you think, as you feel her fingertips soft against your skin, this is more than enough.

lionheart, amrita c.


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