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Sometimes I write music, and sometimes I record it, and sometimes I mean things that you never have heard.


This town was paper, parchment and leaves.
Your house was a memory.
Written in the breeze.
I carried it with me.
Stored in my lungs.
Until I woke beside her.
and it wasn’t enough.

I burnt all the paper.
It made a great pyre.
I tossed in the pictures.
They crinkled, expired.
Yet I carried it all with me.
Till’ I showered off the ash.
Washed clean of your promises.
I hope that it lasts.

Then one day we found writing on the walls.
Beneath the posters I hung to cover it all.
They reminded me. The memories are real, even if they aren’t written, or inhaled on a whim.
They’re still in the air.
You left them there, when you burned them by the sea.
Sure this town was paper, but she wont burn so easily.

[shameless paper towns reference, all hail John Green]

3,461 notes yes. yes. yes.
no. no. no.

yes. yes. yes.


no. no. no.


(Source: xbelieve-live, via heartsofangels)

0 notes

I was informed how much I messed up.

To tell the truth, this was a moment where I did nothing wrong, yet I feel more guilty about messing up because I failed to realize how someone could see my actions as harmful.

I cannot, and should not speak about mistakes I’ve made, and yet I find that once again I am stuck with this overwhelming regret for something I doubt I will ever feel less accountable and sorry for, even in twenty years.

I still feel bad about throwing mud in a kids eye in first grade, even though he flung a pile at me first, and was pushed from behind by that horrible nuisance kev-wait.


I do things, and I regret them.

That is my task and my burden.

But why?