me, you dumb bitch.
“Anyone can write a love poem or story. Everyone does write love poems or stories. They’re so cliche, and over done. Be original!”
The cries of so many English teachers, and writers out there. But, can’t we all appreciate the fact that love is something relatable. Everyone loves something. It’s an emotion we as humans were and are blessed with. I don’t see it as a “crutch” or a “starting point” as it is so often stereotyped and categorized.
Writing about love is invigorating. It is a way to kiss and tell, without really telling. It’s expressing what you’re feeling and dealing with in a way for so many others to obtain, and understand, and maybe even relate. I believe that there is somewhat of a hopeless romantic in everyone. I for one am the exact dictionary deffiniton of a hopeless romantic (I’m even the definition in the ‘hopeless’ category too).
Writing about love gives us the same hope that reading about it does, or watching a sappy romance movie. Writing about love gives us the same hope and longing that any cliche has given. Whether anyone reads it, or you write it for your own satisfaction, it gives you just that; satisfaction. Shakespeare is one of the greatest playwrites and writers. Most of his works, and nearly all of his well known works are of love and religion. It is not immature or elementary to write about love as most instructors tell their students.
But that is another thing with love; it cannot be taught. Love is something that comes from deep, deep within your heart and your entire being and soul. It is a consuming emotion throughout your life and body. It is something that cannot be contained, constrained, or taught. Love is meant to be loved. It is meant to be expressed, illustrated, felt, and experienced by all.
I, among all hopeless romantics left, am in love with love. I thrill over seeing people, such as my grandparents, who have been married for fifty years. Fifty years married to one person, and longer than that have you known them. Do you not want that? Do you not long for someone to wakeup next to you, every morning, for fifty years in love with you more in that very moment than the moment before? It is beautiful. It is perfect. It is love. I long to find someone who can see me in that light, fifty years down the road with me, in love with me.
Express love. Write about it, draw it, sing it, paint it, be it; be love. Be, and fall in love with love.
Your warm hand pressed upon my face
As you longingly look from my lips to my eyes
Pulling me in for that sweet, first, initial kiss.
“Your lips are
p e r f e c t.”
The words escape from your mouth
And land upon my heart.
& again, you kiss me.
“Your hands are so
You lace your fingers
Never leaving mine.
Your warm body falls against me,
Comfortable you lay.
Comfortable I wish you would stay.
The air so full, and warm
Stars full and bright,
Just as my heart is when you place your hand upon my knee.
Nights like that, do not end there.
Or they shouldn’t.
Don’t be afraid.
I’d be good for you,
But you’d be better for me.
Go out into the world and be good, but more importantly go out into the world and DO GOOD. For Hope, For Strength, For Life. Delta Gamma Fraternity.
"Strawberries, cherries, and an angle’s kiss in spring…"
Lana Del Rey
No Romeo, Gatsby.
I want someone to love me the way Gatsby loved Daisy.
Raw, unfiltered, passionate, angry, grasping love.
Someone who would count each time a light flashed before his eyes, for five years, knowing and never loosing hope that he would one day find me again.
Someone who would protect me at all cost.
Someone who would steal me away from his own party to plan our life together.
Someone who saved my letters and clippings.
I want someone to love me the way Gatsby loved Daisy.
A fool a a girl may be,
But this girl a love like that she would not be so fancy free.
I would love him that, and then so much more.
I don’t want a pathetic love like Romeo,
Where he’d toss his life away if he couldn’t have me.
But a Great Gatsby, who would not run away, but keep living larger and larger as each day that we were together grew.
Romeo hid from his family,
Gatsby told Tom that he and Daisy were
I want a Gatsby.
A crazy, sporadic, passionate, elaborate, hopelessly hopefully romantic
I can feel it.
Summer is near, life is good y’all. Life is real good.
"I’ve recently started to fall in love with myself, and since then, I’ve fallen in love with everything else."
OMG THIS IS ME
My best friend makes fun of me for judging guys off their shoes, but I literally do this all the time.
I AM SO SICK OF FEELING LIKE THIS
WHY DO I ALWAYS HAVE TO FEEL LIKE THIS
DAMN IT I JUST WANT THIS FUCKING FEELING TO GO AWAY
“Good morning beautiful, how was your night?”
Will someone just stay up and text me until I fall asleep, and then when I don’t reply, send me a “Goodnight beautiful, sleep well.” texts for me to wake up to?
I really, truly, just miss having someone to talk to.
After that, he wasn’t sure what to do. He felt a feeling of insecurity, and yet boundless. The best way to put it would be anxious. He felt anxious for what waited out there for him. The world he once knew, he knew he would never know again. From that moment, his pages were blank. Now, this does not mean he tossed the old pages out the window to land in the flames. All this meant was he had no place to go, and no place he couldn’t.
Some say he became a nomad. Others say a troubadour. He held tight to the cliché of “not all who wander are lost.” He like to think the words ‘wander’ and ‘wonder’ interchangeable. He questioned everything. He explored anything. He was f r e e. He had his wits about him, don’t get me wrong. But what he had, that most people did not have, was faith. Faith in the one who watched over him, and faith that he’d find her someday.
Yes, I said her. No no, don’t stop reading. This is not some sappy romance tale that I’m telling you. He just had faith that she was out there. He knew that someday, she would show up right in front of him. And she would know where to find him. She had the same spirit as he did. Free. Oh, she was beautiful, colorful. You know they met once? yes. At a street vender, on the boardwalk not too far from where we are now. He saw this mess of color, and honey brown hair. They exchanged eye contact, and she bought him a leather bracelet. That was all. That was all they ever spoke. But he knew. He knew they’d meet again.
Ah, faith. It is a beautiful thing. He was full of it. To the brim in fact. He had the world open to him. Anxiously awaiting what would happen next, he walked. He walked until he found the nearest city bus stop. He had enough money, he knew he’d be fine. He had enough money, and he had faith. And sometimes, what more do you need? Maybe a little sunshine I suppose. But then again, rain can wash a slate clean open for creativity. Oh hell. You know what I’m saying.
And, so he left. And here I am.
I mean that’s cool, right
One of my close friends is modeling today for Carolina Hererra. I’m over here like, ‘what am I doing with my life.’