I Read These WordsI Hear ThemI Feel ThemI Know ThemI Recognize ThemI Get Lost With ThemExplore The Depths

I read these words I hear them I feel them I know them  I recognize them I get lost with them Explore the depths of your mind They tell me your secrets And yet I know none of them  Your words are lovely And lying And loyal  And as we reminisce  I catch glimpses of a reflection so clear Before your words lead me away  They leave me to wonder If perhaps  These words were made for me

Tell me, do you write of me? 

Sick of Poetry

I am sick of writing poetry                                                                                  Sick of writing in metaphors                                                                                    and beautiful words                                                                                                  in odd formed lines                                                                                                that wind up trailing into plain thoughts                                                                    or lose the thought somewhere along the way to the end of the sentence

I am sick of writing poetry                                                                                        I crave the backing of a storyboard                                                                         Crave the adrenaline that comes when mounting a good arc                            The whiplash that comes with a plot twist                                                                I crave the company of characters                                                                    Who feel things so I don’t have to                                                                            I crave the escape to a world that is not my own but is

I am sick of writing poetry                                                                                        But nothing seems to care                                                                                      Nothing seems to want to stick around                                                                  Nothing seems to want to be the one tasked with comforting me                        To give themselves up to my pencil and will                                                       Not these thoughts                                                                                                Or these words                                                                                                        Or these storylines                                                                                                Not the witty dialogue                                                                                              Or the interesting settings                                                                                        Or the complex characters 

They like to disappear                                                                                              As though they are ashamed                                                                                That they were ever mine                                                                                        I too am ashamed                                                                                                    But I am sick of writing poetry 

wait...did I just get through 3 whole YA fantasy novels in the same series without someone important dying (and staying dead)...what is this feeling? You can write a YA book without killing someone I love? My world is altered...I have been lied to...all these authors causing me unnecessary pain--I--

"That sounds like a terrible idea."

"I wasn't aware that there were any other kind."

I hate Tamlin as much as the next person, I swear, but can we just take a quick sec to remember he plays the fiddle? I'm not asking you to forgive his sins...just to think about this half beast half man playing the fiddle...

---

He had once mentioned that he would have liked to be a travelling minstrel if not a warrior or a High Lord—now, hearing him play, I knew he could have made a fortune from it.

I shouted over the music, “I don’t need a keeper!” I wanted to spin and spin and spin. “No, you don’t,” Tamlin said, never once stumbling over his playing. How his bow did dance upon the strings, his fingers sturdy and strong, no signs of those claws that I had come to stop fearing … “Dance, Feyre,” he whispered. So I did. 

Through it all, Tamlin and his musicians played such joyous music that I didn’t think the world could contain it all. I sashayed over to him, my faerie lord, my protector and warrior, my friend, and danced before him. He grinned at me, and I didn’t break my dancing as he rose from his seat and knelt before me in the grass, offering up a solo on his fiddle to me. 

Yes, I see the toxicity in the words woven in. I do, but do we remember? When all was good a pure? Even for just a moment? Because Tamiln played the damn fiddle?

To be in love is to not be able to breathe and yet feel more alive than you ever have.

All The Things I Never Told You (via bookqueeen)

“Love is a luxury." "No. Love is an element." An element. Like air to breathe, earth to stand on.” ― Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke & Bone