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brokeni. i don't know
if i'll ever understand
why you walked away
and made that summer morning
feel like the coldest winter
ii. you act like
it's all my fault
and can't even see
how much it's killing me inside
iii. oh honey please
stop playing the victim card
it really doesn't suit you very well
especially when i know the truth
iv. do you understand
everything you've done
or are you going to keep
this is our summerremember our feet
hanging off the dock
cheesecake for breakfast
the ducks quacking for more bread
plastic, neon orange kyacks
falling into the river
the lazy afternoon in the hammock
singing love songs to each other
showing our love to each other
tracing the outline of your face
to memorize it in my dreams
when I had to go away again
walking through the zoo
like excited little five-year-olds
proudly holding your hand
lacing your fingers in mine
'what's your favorite fish?'
we just couldn't decide
stuffed puppy for you, old
fennec fox for me, new
'this is her 'friend', Kari'
'those boys better watch out'
stinging pang of irritation in my heart
for the lack of acceptance
your hand in mine
every step of the way
.i want us to have a summer romance
just like we're fifteen
and not giving a damn
about the rest of the world
sneaking out, staying up late
making out, making love
counting stars, counting your freckles
sleeping in your bed, waking up to your smile
i find this place in my dreams
i just want it to be reality
but that's near impossible
when you're so far away
here's tohere's to the young lovers
who try to prove to those who say
that you won't last past a couple months
that you can combat cruel words
and show you meant it when you said
'i love you' to that special someone
here's to the parents
who love and support their children
no matter who they love
or what they believe
always ready to do what they can
for those who matter most to them
sinking shipsi feel like we're nothing more
than two ships passing in the darkness
not muttering a word to each other
but silently letting the other
slip away ever so slowly
self-portrait (in writing)i. I believe in love, music, and myself
because that's what's gotten me through
the tough stuff better than anything else
ii. a big voice doesn't mean anything
if the lyrics don't speak to me
iii. so go on and let me down
for the millionth time
and turn your back to me
after you've lit a fire in my heart
so strong you'd swear
my whole body was in flames
iv. i'm trying not to think about you too
(it's not working very well)
for what it's worth
i miss you too
to the end of the earthif you should die
before the right time
i would hope the world
would stop spinning
and start crumbling away
until gravity was nonexistent
and i would run to the edge
until my feet lifted off the ground
and i was united with you once more
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
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