It's a finger snapping kind of day.
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Writing is hard. Not as hard as not writing. Not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic and a gruesome winless battle.A writer who writes, knows peace, lives connected to truth. Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination.
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The world I held so closely, she played me like a game,I released and left her laughing to stand on my own two feet.
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She knew she could never love any man the way she loved a blank sheet of paper that only she could fill.
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She stabbed him with her wicked pretty knife, disrupted his simple life. She's a player, a heartbreaker, and now she breaks alone.
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He offered her power, money, status..a giant prison, all in exchange for only.. Her soul.
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Her heart had grown so familiar to the pain of life without him, that to respond now seemed too large a pleasure she could not endure. If pain was love, then she loved fiercely. Yet knew she could not be near that boy again.
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. She needed him to know she did not care. She was spirited, tenacious, and full of contempt for him.
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You cannot mistake thisYou cannot reinvent this moment You cannot call this loveIt is so much more
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Defend myself? I cannot defend the verbal repressions of a boy. A curmudgeonly, cantankerous, ill-tempered, counterfeit boy.
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Color me.. BRILLIANT.
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Writers do not have the privilege of sleep. There is always a story coming alive in their heads, constantly composing. Whether they choose it or not.
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He had let me know time after time that he was a thinking man, a man of intellect and wit. Yet one unintended hungry look into my eyes and he betrayed each of his words he had carefully spoken to me. I knew it in that instant. He was a viscerally driven man. And one day, he would possess me.
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When we are in love, we are convinced nobody else will do. But as time goes, others do do, and often do do, much much better.
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My lips are fierce with passion. My heart spins fiery beats. A rhythm lives within my fingers and dances in my feet.
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I want your most vital organ. I want it to be mine.
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But every spiteful word she ever wrote him was effortless love clenched in her fists. Her heart screaming for stability in this fiery game of desire.
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He cared less, so they cared more. He said it was beautiful. I knew he was broken. This was his game.
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She had missed him so long now, that the feeling had become a part of her. As each day passed, the missing distanced itself from her heart. One day she woke, and realized the missing was there but the pain was gone. Missing without pain is tolerable. Pain linked to heartache is intolerable.
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She wanted to write to him. Tell him she was glad he was back, that he was alive, that he was home and safe. But words to him no longer fit right in her her mouth. Words which belonged in his ownership were no longer hers to give. Silence was the only acceptable state her heart would grant. He would never know what he missed, because she refused to be heard in his presence. All the words he could have had, all the phrases he might have danced with. The smiles which would have been imprinted upon his heart, would never be. And his lips would never be able to reply to the words she could not say.
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Now he was nothing to her, just a lesson in time, a wicked boy-man, incapable of wealth or prestige.
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Maybe she had it wrong all this time and her empty heart could never be filled by his ingenious broken spirit. Maybe this yearning had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with her.
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We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the loveembodying our stories page after page. In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world.
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