to be (semi)friends only

so f-list, my darlings, you are now becoming exclusive to my ranting.

i will be adding | not adding
(but please comment first)

poetry and personal fiction will be open to everyone, but my rants and comments on my daily life will be kept locked.

banner credit : [info]tomycoffee 

(no subject)

Fuck I wish I could just spend my life laying on wooden floors, drinking weak tea, reading scripts and paperbacks, writing reallyreally short stories and poetry on scrap bits of paper, listening to folk music and just living in the exact way that I wanted.

Auditioning for parts that yeah maybe I'll never get, but maybe today or tomorrow or the next day will be my lucky day.
Writing because I see something that hits me so full in the face that inspiration doesn't let me not write.

I just wish I could explain to my parents that maybe I'm every cliche that ever existed by anyone who thought they were artistic anywhere, but it would make me happy.

I've got exams coming up and if I do poorly on a single one I'm being pulled out of my drama class and performing group. The only things keeping me sane.

sometimes i really want to scream. or scribble the letters in black fucking ink all over my pristine, white walls. eggshell, my bad.

(no subject)

You smell like the oppressive heat sticking to my skin,
burning a vicious red,
leaving fingerprints on my arms.


You smell like the open ocean washing over my limbs,
reflecting the glittering sun,
careless caresses on my bruises.


You smell like the quiet cold of a soaked forest,
droplets twisting down,
my echoes muffled by damped leaves.


You smell like the earth bellow my feet,
like the sky above my head,
the air around and inside my body.

Your intoxicating scent has overtaken me.

Sometimes, ordinary days are extraordinary days: day 2

::it was my brother's 19th birthday today so everything was very full and very busy, thus I did not really get a lot of writing done. I definitely plan to go somewhere beautiful today to pick up some inspiration but in replace of that now I'll give you Olivia's fantasy world to think about.

Sometimes, ordinary days are extraordinary days: Day 2

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Sometimes, ordinary days are extraordinary days: day 1

:: I've been going through a extreme amount of writers block so i've decided to force myself. Everyday, for a month, so that is until September 28, I'll write a short story. Something between 500-1000 words, nothing spectacular or special, just whatever flits into my brain. As always, I'd love and appreciate any and all feedback ♥ 

Sometimes, ordinary days are extraordinary days. Day 1:

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(no subject)


Relive the magic of Harry Potter one last time @ hp_commonroom Reading the entire series over, one chapter at a time. Daily discussion posts, movie watching posts, party posts, and character discussions! We begin July 5th - Don't miss out on the magic.


(no subject)

poetry is the water that wears through stone -- whoever wrote it on my english teacher's wall.

I. Forever
I am breathless,
full of your air-
handprints along my ribcage
pressing into my flesh.

your lips slipping and
along my skin.

Aching against me
like a stone pressed
into the
under the sun,
too warm to touch.
You have ruined

II. First
The silk ocean is vicious,
biting at her skin.
Drowning her naked limbs,
so delicate,
so soft.

The gleaming red is taunting,
mocking her heart,
hiding the blood.
Broken, she is

The murmuring wind is unwelcome,
Pitying her soul.
Words that are
full of lies.

In the night she
caught in his net.
In the wrong bed.

III. Without
I breathe in its stillness – it is pale,
coffee coloured cheeks are snow white;
it reminds me of paper,
I want to curl it up, throw it away.
I want to hide.

My eyes see it still, even as I turn away,
I close them.
The darkness is full of bright orbs, staring.
They are blank now, unseeing.
I want to hide.

Cold and naked, uncovered.
It would shiver, curl its fists.
Tiny and breakable like
delicate fluttering wings.
I want to hide.

I am empty, an unfilled vessel, lonely chalice.
Unworthy, unhealthy,
It was my fault.
Broken down in my poison flesh.
I want to hide.

I long for cries,
The silence is heavy,
I want noise.

It does not come.

IV. Our Story
little bugs
across time.

Dirty bugs,
all on the pages.

Tiny as a grain of sand,
so significant.
Only to be forgotten.

Lessons we do not
us bugs
never learn