white canvas skies
be colored by
the warm summer,
winds and happy,
I love to write and I love music. I'm in a never ending journey to find good music. I love to be outside and doing stuff, I can not be sitting down all day, I would lose what's left of my mind.
My inbox is always open to those who need help. Truth be told, I probably share your troubles as well.
From our Rose Bush
How many books
I picked up
And then put down
Because I was too
Ignorant to give it a
How many words
That I wrote to you,
You didn’t read.
How many times
Without feeling ashamed
Of showing emotion
Or feeling pathetically weak.
How many jesters
Have failed in
Making the king’s court
Just how much time
I’ve wasted wondering
About such tiny things,
Making them bigger than they really are.
The Kiss of Death is a marble sculpture, found in the Poblenou Cemetery in Barcelona, Spain. The sculpture is thought to have been created by Jaume Barba, although others have claimed that it’s idea was conceived by Joan Fontbernat. The sculpture depicts death, in the form of a winged skeleton, planting a kiss on the forehead of a handsome young man. The sculpture elicits varying responses from the people that view it: is it ecstasy on the face of the young man, or resignation? [text via]
Anonymous asked: You're brilliant, to be honest.
but I’m a lousy person
I am nothing near brilliant
Ladies and gentlemen of all ages and from all fandoms of Tumblr. I write this in hopes that you’ll witness my love for Sydney.
She has doubted me for the last couple of months. Calling me a liar and calling my words empty.
Truth be told now,
I meant every single word that i’e said to her.
I love how she can be really fucking silly sometimes and then really serious. Which led me to write this post.
I love how she literally leads the conversation, how I can talk to her for hours. Yes, our conversations have reached rather eternal stalemates but she always comes up with something to lead on again.
I love how she literally delays my priorities, I have to wake up at 5 am to catch a bus to support my decathlon team. But I’d rather be writing this post.
She claims that I am embarrassed of her. Not true at all. Theres nothing to be ashamed off to being associated with her or any one else that i talk to on this black hole of a website.
She makes me sad, people. Really fucking sad. A girl like her should never see herself as anything short of GREATNESS, AWESOMENESS. I tell her everyday. She doubts my very being it seems.
She argues with me a lot. It always causes friction between us that takes too long to heal and too much time away from talking to her.
I love how she literally pulls me out of my conservative shell and pulls me into her silliness. A silliness that makes me smile.
Ladies and gentlemen, this girl is special. She isn’t like most other girls. She’s more stern, more vocal about things. I love that. It has caused problems but we always manage to make up some how.
I hurt her a few weeks ago when i unbeknownst to me she saw a post i wrote about Molly. Little did she know that the post was requested by molly.
Im sorry Sydney.
I am a fool
Who does not deserve her audience.
Ladies and gentlemen,
I love my friend Sydney.
Family Owned coffee shop—- A Prose
I never liked coffee, I blame Starbucks for that. Their coffee was made for money and not for a living, it took the meaning out of the product that so many people need to get their day started. To me coffee shops were always a place to go with friends on a lazy day off from work or an even lazier weekend morning.
I stumbled upon this little shop a few weeks ago when I was walking home from a long and stressful day in school. It was a cold winter day. The wind was chilling everything in its path relentlessly. The cold burned more than a cup of coffee ever would at that point. I entered the medium sized establishment with little enthusiasm. I wanted to get my coffee and take advantage of the warmth and shelter that the place would provide and all I would have to do was hand over three to eight dollars in exchange.
The waiter was young and he looked Hispanic. His heavy Mexican accent only confirmed my assumptions. He took my simple order of a cup of coffee, with three sugars and no cream with an almond covered muffin on the side. I saw him walk away to behind the counter of which he was standing behind when I walked in. A woman came forth from a doorway to the left of the counter. She was an older woman, I am guessing she was the mother or an aunt. They spoke in Spanish. It was a warm feeling to understand what they were saying. I don’t speak Spanish as much as I used to but it is still my first language.
I was the only customer in the place. A single soul occupying a table meant for four, there were eight tables in total, though there was enough room if a sudden influx of customers suddenly appeared but, I still felt like a selfish person. It felt too awkward to move to a table for one.
At this point in time, the lady that had appeared from the doorway started to move about the counter. The smell of coffee filled the room. A strong and sweet smell, you could smell the caffeine as the aroma traveled all about the place. It woke you up, it filled you with a warm excitement. I was going to receive my coffee soon. Soon the little feeling of cold would be eliminated from my senses and replaced with my coffee and almond covered muffin.
A few minutes passed and the lady had finished moving about behind the counter. The waiter picked up a cup, put it on a black tray. He then went to a display case which, from my point of view looked like an assortment of breads and other pastries, which I now regretted not considering ordering. The waiter returned to his tray and brought it to where I was sitting. He placed the cup of coffee down with care and the bread with less care. He dusted his hands on his apron and said “Enjoy” in his heavy Mexican accent.
I ate my snack, Cleaned up any crumbs that had escaped me. Left a six dollar tip. Gathered my things. Walked up to the counter and in my native tongue, thanked both the young waiter and the lady, who had once again appeared from the doorway to the left of the counter. I walked for the exit, when the lady said to take care.
I walked out, feeling the familiar cold wind attack every exposed part of me. I had nine blocks to go before I reached home.
Is turning into lust
I want to be pressed
Against your breast,
You against my chest.
You’re waist moving
In a perfect rhythm
And in perfect tune
With every one of your gasp.
My arms holding you in place
You’re fingers tracing hard red lines
Down my back and sides
And I, Leaving a nice collection
Of bruises on all your favorite places
As a pleasant little memory.
We have all, at one point, probably at a random point in time, seen the light of inspiration in its physical form. The great thing about this is that, we have indeed witnessed its existence but we don’t really remember when we actually saw it. You, the reader have also seen this. Quite frankly, I suspect that every person who has ever created something out of their thoughts has seen it. You begin to think back to a time where you were thinking. Perhaps, you were just sitting there doing absolutely nothing, like myself. Perhaps you were just staring out into space and into the cosmos that fit into your field of vision. You were probably not looking at anything in particular. You saw something but you didn’t pay much attention to what it actually was and you were subconsciously okay with that.
The light from the outside world peered in through the window, the only thing that is separating you from the summer’s breeze and the winter’s cold embrace. Your cup of coffee or tea was getting cold as you held it with both hands, the tendrils of water vapor creeping up into the empty space of the room. I realize now that this, whatever it is, has begun to stray from the point. My apologies dear reader or passerby who accidentally stumbled upon this cacophony of words that tried to explain the phenomena of inspiration
It is a light that fills a certain space that at that time you were occupying for whatever reason. Either for doing something or nothing. You were either creating something or nothing at all. All of a sudden you get a tiny little spark, a tiny little thought that transformed into an idea. You get a piece of paper and a writing utensil and you create. Inspiration at its finest and most wonderful state. It is a greater surprise if you had been trying to do something for days but you simply couldn’t.
I remember I golden light. Coming into the room from the window. It was a wonderfully beautiful summer day. Everything about this day was perfect. The temperature washed over your body, giving you a rich warmth that was simply wonderful. The breeze was mild but strong enough to make you smile every time it blew. A breeze that made you remember your childhood. The light framed everything in a beautiful shade of gold. Depending on the time of day it was either a light shade of gold that resembled yellow or in the late afternoon when it was almost a strong orange. The outline of the object spotting the floor where its silhouette decorated the also golden floor. Mirroring all other objects in the same way, creating a correlating world of shadows and light.
Inspiration isn’t a state of being. It is in itself a being. Like all living beings, it comes and it goes.