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Month

July 2015

Autumn Leaves

Do you remember those whispers in the dark,under the stars? When you poured your heart and unrivalled your soul?
You probably remember, and when you do the hair on the back of your neck stands up, the pores on your palm become waterfall’s.

You remember the mist from his breath in winter, the shimmering glow of his sweat in summer. The engulfment of his cologne in your lungs.

And now that all that’s left is his footprints in your brain. You ran your hands over everything he touched hoping to feel the echo of his nerves.

Each seasonal wind comes with a scent of him. Each sunrise graces light and his memories. Sunsets flicker with hazes of his chocolate brown eyes.

His heart had the beat of tossing waves and his kisses where like hurricanes,they took your breath away.

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Unforgotten Love

So I’ve come across quite a lot of definitions of love and for this post I’ve chosen to use “love is like going home”

I’ve always wondered what makes people return to their first love,.I was almost convinced it was stupidity or desperation. But no,it’s going home.
We all at one point fall in love with someone who makes us feel like we are going home, this feeling is relief,comfort,security. So because this one particular person makes you feel all that,you always want to run back to them.
And honestly I think it’s understandable, because no matter what happens at home,it will always be a place of solace. And you will want to run back whenever home calls.
No matter where you try to move to,you will always remember your first home, and what breaks your heart about it, is the fact that your always ready to go back home. It is hard to resist home.
The first place you ever call home is unforgettable, so is your first real love.
But you don’t always have to.
Because the more you go back home, the more you will always go back.

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Piece Of Art

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He fell in love with the fire in her eyes, the smoke that escaped her mouth as she spoke. The flourish of her hand as it hit the paper,leaving behind a trail of star dust. Her calligraphy graced the paper like a halo on an angel. She made his dopamine levels tango, her speech ozzed with flames because her heart couldn’t contain it all. He fell for her smile when she blushed, the lost expression in her eyes, the glimmer with which she embraced the world around her. The awe struck amazement that poured from every pore on her skin. He fell in love with a piece of art

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The Blocked Writer

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I dragged my pen across paper like a dagger to a vampires heart,looking to draw blood n life but even my ink couldn’t run because it knew it was a waste, there was nothing on the giving end,so my hand sits still and limp like my spine has no will. But The stories not over,it’s just began,tables are turning,pavements are being chased,hearts melted to stone,yes stone but next time I’ll be braver. I’ll be my own saviour. till then I stare blankly at the sky,waiting for falling stars,I stare at the jar of pennies on my lap, then the pond before me.I’m a blind Gardner deaf to nature. A deaf guitarist blind to music. my arms have no limbs and my hand has no soul. I once more drag my pen across my paper trying to fill my grave but instead I dug it deeper,burying myself evermore. Till I’m just a hand reaching out,a zombie trying to break out,out of the prison where my ink runs dry and my paper stays blank.

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