take me away from this place

i don't know who i am

what this is
it’s not specific
it’s not caused by a heartbreak
or a fall out with your friends
it’s the general feeling
of not being
not being
just not being alive
like you’re a ghost
and nothing works out for you
because you’re not real
and no one listens to you
because you don’t exist
and when someone does hear you
they’re special
but they leave
because you either scare them
or you’re not enough
because you’re not real
i’m
not fucking
real

i can’t feel anything
except
my heart pumping blood
through my veins

i can’t make it stop

those red lights in the rain
drove me insane
but i’d take them any day
over your dark blue eyes
through the window of that train

some boy i don’t know
told me my eyes were pretty
today
and i still haven’t
recovered

- a novel

almost falling in love with you
feels like
finding out about a fatal accident
that occurred
on the intersection you just left
minutes before

“She lives the poetry she cannot write.”

—   Oscar Wilde  (via lactique)

(Source: sunst0ne, via dungeonpoetry)

a split second
five tenths of one second
that’s all
it takes

he killed himself

green-light-on-the-dock:

It is 3am. Why am I awake? I have nobody to be awake for.

mangled-passion:

I am bound to write
poetry about you and your eyes
since they shine like stars
in the dark night sky

(via mangled-passion)