If It Was Right, It Would Have Stayed — Thought Catalog

God

via If It Was Right, It Would Have Stayed — Thought Catalog

Advertisements

Silence — Out of Animo

They won’t talk to each other anymore. They walk around the house in silence, eat separate dinners, watch the same shows on different televisions, in silence. They won’t even share a remote. When she talks about her dream home, she lives in it alone. There’s always a foggy valley morning, never anyone to share it […]

via Silence — Out of Animo

At The End Of The Day, You Can Only Count On Yourself — Thought Catalog

Drew GrahamAt the end of the day, you only have yourself. Your friends and loved ones will be there for you when you need them but they won’t be able to understand everything that goes on in your life, they won’t be able to understand the thoughts that haunt you at night. They won’t be…

via At The End Of The Day, You Can Only Count On Yourself — Thought Catalog

You’re Allowed To Not Fit In — Thought Catalog

Gabriel MatulaYou’re allowed to be yourself. You’re allowed to be your own kind of beautiful. You’re allowed to be all of the things that set you apart from the crowd. You’re allowed to wear the shape of you however you like. You’re allowed to seek self-love instead of impressing others. You’re allowed to be imperfect…

via You’re Allowed To Not Fit In — Thought Catalog

Vulnerability.

Poets peel away the pristine poised preposterous propaganda perpetuated by petty people playing precariously placed. Positioned such that the powerful unparalleled new possibility can never be dictated to us now. Dereliction of duty by Dads leave daughters devoid of dignity. Disappointed, denigrated. The duality disturbed through the redistribution of wealth. Not material but metaphysical and metamorphic merge maliciousness and malignancy what was once seen as wealth warped; wrought and wreathed. The wind was widowed. The well was widened and the will well worn. The world was willowed, weakened. Yesterday’s yolk no longer lay yonder yet rather yelped, yelled and yellowing; the youthlessness of the unrelenting sun. Summer sin sauntered separating subdued spirits. Lusts slinked sluttily around sliding into the solicitors sendings. Somnambulists suddenly sentient of their servitude to story. 

Rushing Rain 

Pitter. Patter. Rushing Raindrops, Ruined Red River. The Floods Flowed. Foolishly Fickle We Flounder. Lauded, Looted, Lied To And Left Out. Children Of Clay, Loame, Light And Fire. The Oven Bakes, Bursting Burdens Billow Over Head. Buckets Bring Blue Bullion To Bloated Bellies. Asuring Azure The All Seeing Eye. Alluring Artifices Actually Are The Architexts Of Our Ascension As We Accrue Artifacts Of Adam’s Admittance. Knowledge Unknown Has Now Been Bestowed, Beneath Brilliance Buried Deep Down. Carbon Cured Of Imperfection Or At Least So The Story Goes…