Viktor Chase
And in his heart, he became a perishable painting; in which Ray Singh falls in love with the dead Viktor Ivanovich. #taygetsthegay #181 Copyright © 2016, humanoligy
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Contrast
A collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan, 2014
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Marlboro's Tale
After losing her friend because of an on-the-run murderer, Clover went to a house party to try to find the person responsible for her death. However, instead of doing so, she found herself spending hours in a bathroom with a girl named Astrid, only for things to get worse from there.
Mature -
Sol at Luna
Luna Carreon never understood why the intuitive Sol Chang always sees the light in every corner of this dark vast cosmos, for all her life the world weaved her with a wretched past. The more the universe gravitate their paths close together, the more she realized how their story was identical to the myth of the Moon a...
Completed Mature -
How Would You Speak of Love When Language Dies? (Volume I)
Love speaks to you as you breathe for life. In the dining hall. In the train station. In all moments where reality seems altered. And love will still speak to you even when its soul walks away. Even when language dies. These are entries and excerpts of mine sealed inside bottles you'll never see, locked up in my 1...
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the art of
"I think you should -" "Correction: I am in my own body, with my own mind; you do not and cannot tell me what to do."
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Sa Hindi Malamang Dahilan
Tugtog sa radyo at walkman. Cassette tape na buhol-buhol. Ikot ng lumang plaka sa ponograpo. Bibingka na walang itlog na maalat sa ibabaw. Kare-kare na may dinikdik na mani. Galunggong na may crispy fry. Ipaghihimay ng isda para hindi matinikan. Nakasahod ang kamay sa tumutulong tubig-ulan mula sa sirang bubong ng wai...
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soft light
i just want to feel okay again. poems written circa 2017-2020. what a wacky time to exist. if a lot of these seem unhinged it's probably because most of them were written while i was in a very abusive relationship. tw for occasional themes of addiction, sex, sh.
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C O L O R S
In the depths of darkness are colors. And beyond those hues and shades are stories never told.
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Incendiary
Two broken people. Two people who have never been loved, therefore, not knowing how to love. Theo and Nova. They first met when they were both young. She was blinded by the need to fit in. He was blinded by the undisturbed attention she gave him. She broke his heart and didn't even know it. He ruined her, and he w...
Mature -
A Flowerbed for Romantics
The chattering of canaries beneath the cumulus clouds' silhouettes call nature out to breathe once more for I am here, laying above verdant grasses. I carry the heart of a romantic; the art of loving enwreathes itself around my worn out heart. For each heartbreak I experience, petals wither until it strikes the ground...
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I named her Africa #Wattys2015
I didn't mind if my fingertips were rusted with coffee grounds, or if my palm still hosted bread crumbs, I reached out my hand across the table, and you squeezed it but proved me wrong. My mind was spiraling, my heart, unstable. ____________________________
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Memento Mori
Destruction shines with such beauty. 【A collection of short stories about temptation, death, and the endless cycle of ruin】 copyright © 2019 TheForgottenCoolKid
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Melancholy in Black
Tonight, when you're in bed alone, don't fret, and don't be sad. You're not as alone as you think you are.
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Apricity
❝I spend my nights writing irrelevant nothings like this until I see the day's sunrise.❞
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but i must admit
“but i must admit i miss you quite terribly. the world is too quiet without you nearby. i go to bed early and rise late and feel as if i have hardly slept at all.”
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Death by Chocolate: a Candy Land cozy mystery
There's been a murder in Candy Land, and Jill, Nursryville P.I., is on the case. Can she solve the mystery behind Knave's death?
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Clockwork
Everything remembered must be forgotten. The gods are glorious, and then they are not -- history is an ongoing clock. It trudges on.
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romanticism of monsters
careworn and smiling with a crooked grin, adoration slept in the wrinkles beside his eyes as he observed the mosaic beauty. she held his callused palm in hers and whispered to the moon; "tonight, we're monsters." romanticism isn't always beautiful.
