to think too much.




is it to ponder
over a thought 
a couple million times
until it becomes rough and used? 

or is it rather to have 
too many 
piling up one another
until they all fall over? 

is it having to hold
such a grave musing
you struggle to carry
until your knees become weak? 

what is too many,
what is too much,
what is too heavy,
to a soul who feels all,
when they aren't any?






 

just a slip away
from a fall in a bottomless pit
of darkness
that i chose to step into to

all it took
was whispered words
laced with pretty lies
shielding behind an addictive voice

blind to your horns
immune to your burn
i let you swallow me whole
thinking we were sharing souls

unaware i remained
when a knife wedged in me
unaware
it was the one i gave you



 

without another, 
i am

the cloud 
that gifts you the comfort of a shade
to embrace 
in each other's warmth instead of the sun's. 

the cup of coffee
brought by the hands of your lover
that your lips touch
before you lean away to meet theirs. 

the streetlight
you meet under at ungodly hours
to glisten 
in front of another with the rest in dark. 

and alone i wait,
                           to not be anymore.
to find the star that'll float with me,
to find the matching ceramic plate to accompany me,
to find the crow that'll stand by me, 

to be a pair of eyes 
looked by another's.

• the message in a bottle someone found on the beach. What does it say? (Delia Rune)

Angie, 

If you're currently having the pleasure to read this, I'm assuming you've found my bottle and that it didn't get lost within the sea, washed away with all the shells I've found in the sand. It's me, your dearest sister, Tiana. It's been a while since I've seen you, but I hear your voice everyday. 

I hear it at shore, when you think no one's listening. I hear it at night, when you assume everyone's asleep, and from the soothing sound of your softest hums, I know it's you. But of course, the question had come to my spirit; where were you? Mother claims you're up in the sky, which I find rather peculiar after she had just told me the odd-looking box, that apparently held you in, was underground. 

It hadn't made much sense to me. As I would voice...

i hide behind whispers
to travel within ears. 
i'm your biggest danger
yet you shield me from others.

i'm a shadow's cousin. 
always following, 
only to be gone 
when you try to find me. 

what are you so afraid of? 
that they'll see me? 
or see the cracks within you, 
where you built a home for me? 

i promise i'm not your enemy. 
it's them,
the ones who try to touch me,
the ones who don't understand me. 

you know if they searched deep enough,
looked beyond the pretty 
mask you molded for me. 
they'd find me. 

i'm too heavy to carry around,
too big to hide behind the bark of a tree
and yet too dangerous to let go at once.
and that's how the

slipping happens,
evenly, in pieces.
created just to be 
released with 
every narrow of
the eye. 
so look closely. 

and you'll find the fragments.


 

Lost at sea, she strived to break out of the water. 

Just a little more. 

Her hand met the sun. 

And another pulled her down. 

There, in the specific corner of my closet, assimilating with the shadows, lies a winter jacket. One that I hadn't seen in years and hoped no one would see again, and yet I remember it so well. It was pink, puffy, and had two pockets, with a heart at the end of the zipper for each. I had worn it everyday to school when I was seven years old, as one would when something was their favourite item (and also, if it was the only winter jacket they owned in the snowy landscapes of Canada). Until, it wasn't anymore. All it took for my simple and innocent admiration for a piece of clothing was a hole on the soft coloured fabric. Well, more or so the laughter of those who had spotted it. It wasn't that big of a hole, really, but just big enough for it to fall to the eyes of another. Nobody had made it a...

for calling you a fool
when you got the answers wrong.
you were never as big 
as the one i am now.

for making you wait for me,
at the bus stop as i arrived late. 
i hope it's the same reason
as to why you're not here today.

for not telling you
how pretty your smile was. 
a sight that i will never be
responsible for anymore. 

for sleeping in class,
while you were talking to me. 
funny how it's why
i stay awake at night. 

for giving you so many reasons
to leave
but stupidly thinking
you'd always stay   

for all the mistakes i've made,

for all the promises i forgot,

for all the words i said

and for the ones i didn't, 

for me. 





 

There, in the deep blue sky, were a series of clouds. Some were shaped like joy, others like sorrow. Sometimes, the clouds were heavy with tears, slowly becoming gray as a storm stirred. Other times, the clouds danced along with the sun during the brightest of days. Amongst them all, lived a moon child. She jumped from one to another, tearing a piece of the soft cotton-like fluff with her hand each time and then shoving it in her satchel. She was terrified of edging near the cloud, wondering what would await if she fell, but every step she took into the vast sky, she found herself walking with the wind, her footprints being marked with ink. At night, the ink shone. They formed constellations. Stars, they'd call it, arranging themselves into phrases. The clouds were her thoughts, the stars were her words, and the sky held her story. 

you're the crescent that appears
when the sun is done shining.
you're the one
people fall asleep to. 

you're the gloom ascending
from the glory of a bird's flight. 
you're the one 
people let their feet graze instead of their eyes.

you're the curious mist that settles
after a flame's reign.
you're the one
people wave away.

                you're the flare of the night

     you're the gloom following a soul

you're the haze flying without wings

but in their eyes;

you're the one that stole the light

     you're the hidden darkness of a beauty 

             you're the intoxicating mess of a thrill


you're the one
behind the other. 




 

you're the crescent that appears
when the sun is done shining.
you're the one
people fall asleep to. 

you're the gloom ascending
from the glory of a bird's flight. 
you're the one 
people let their feet graze instead of their eyes.

you're the curious mist that settles
after a flame's reign.
you're the one
people wave away.

            you're the flare of the night

     you're the gloom following a soul

you're the haze flying without wings

but in their eyes;

you're the one that stole the light

    you're the hidden darkness of a beauty 

        you're the intoxicating mess of a thrill


you're the one
behind the other. 




 

• a myth that explains why the sky turns black at night (by AstroWriter)

There once lived a fairy. 

Who saw the world for what it was: beautiful. Everything in the world had reflected through a glimmer their own inner beauty. How could they see the world for any less, when the flowers bloomed the colors of youth and the water streamed along the sound of a muse? 

And so, they lived on, letting the blue of the sky caress their wings as they flew amidst the clouds, without a single care in the world knowing it would forever bask in its winsomeness. 

Until one day, as they were letting their wings gleaming under the sun, soaring through the sky, they heard a voice; or rather, a cry. Upon flying a bit further, they came across a crescent, gray, hiding within the secrecy of the blue sky. 

Their wails held a profound tone of misery and the fairy couldn't help...

There once lived a fairy. 

Who saw the world for what it was: beautiful. Everything in the world had reflected through a glimmer their own inner beauty. How could they see the world for any less, when the flowers bloomed the colors of youth and the water streamed along the sound of a muse? 

And so, they lived on, letting the blue of the sky caress their wings as they flew amidst the clouds, without a single care in the world knowing it would forever bask in its winsomeness. 

Until one day, as they were letting their wings gleaming under the sun, soaring through the sky, they heard a voice; or rather, a cry. Upon flying a bit further, they came across a crescent, gray, hiding within the secrecy of the blue sky. 

Their wails held a profound tone of misery and the fairy couldn't help but ask them what was wrong. 

The fairy had approached them, asked for their...

the park standing a few steps away from my house
holds a tree. 
under the shade i used to crawl to
and let the shadows bury me. 

the bittersweet, lingering glances
wondering why i never spoke. 
they hadn't known that all my confessions
where sitting peacefully as droplets on the leaves. 

the kids that ran across in front
pondered if i was okay. 
it's as if they couldn't see the thick wood 
always behind my back. 

i wasn't lonely, 
but rather alone with it's comfort. 
i wanted others' absence 
to indulge in its companionship. 

but when the wind would blow
on the leaves a little too hard,
and when the shade became
perhaps a little too dark

i'd return in the presence of others,
til the next day.
and run away back 
to my own comfort. 
 

I grew up plunging myself headfirst into fairytales, bedtime stories and late night movies. Whatever world I could find, that was besides the only one I was actually forced to stay in, I’d take a leap into it, without giving it a second thought. The world I left behind wasn’t something I missed; in fact, it was something I’d rather dread going back to. On most days, I’d hope that the steps of the trail I left behind me would simply disappear and I wouldn’t have the personification of my worries following me. I didn’t want to have the daunting fear that I’d grow old holding my hand, I had a princess in another universe to do that. I was avoiding my everlasting companion called the future from touching me, choosing to hide behind pirates instead. 

As time went by, I start processing the rather disappointing realization that eventually, stories end. I couldn’t stay in one forever. I couldn’t seek...

"You're not really famous if everyone still likes you." 

Taylor Jenkins Reid’s 2018 release ‘The Seven Husbands Of Evelyn Hugo’  is a time machine back into the 1950s: an era where Hollywood was growing with new talents arising into stardom.

For decades, we grew up watching the toned men with pulled-back hair starring in action-packed blockbuster movies, or the alluring women rocking red carpets and award shows. We spent our lives wanting to bask in the glory of someone else’s. But, outside the fame and the riches, what were their lives truly like? When the grand amount of eyes watching became too much? When their image upheld was becoming harder to keep? When the world was cheering for nothing but the pixelated characters they saw on screen, but not a single person was holding out their hand for them?

In this book, we follow Evelyn’s story and get all those answers. We see the pretty, the ugly and the not-so-spectacular...

time heals. 


by the tick of a clock,
one's despair will end. 
in the meanwhile, you can unlock
the ability to pretend. 


when winter had walked away, 
springtime came.
perhaps the cold would stray? 
yet you felt just the same. 


"your joy will commence
when summer arrives." 
empty words in the silence,
full of lies. 


the colours of autumn take over
after a million blinks of an eye.
"your time has come, for sure." 
they say as the leaf becomes dry. 


and falls away. 



time heals. 
too much time killed. 

 

Near misses: two characters encounter each other at different points in time, but just barely miss interacting. Until one day . . . (by mitch.momo)

They met under the tree, near the school. It only took a thousand moments for Theodora to fall in love with Nia. Words were spoken, memories were shared, but there was no trace of them to be remembered. They couldn't afford leaving a trace to allow them to be remembered.  

Until, they discovered a wall, one belonging to the abandoned building a few steps away from the school. And all it took was a couple of spray cans and they were writing their stories. Drawings of birds, lyrics from songs, quotes from books embroidered those gray bricks. They sealed every promise each time with a shake of a can. 

Except one: They would stay together no matter what life threw at them. 

And when life threw at them the weight of reality, as Nia...

in this garden i stand, 
too enwrapped in my own darkness
to notice the one surrounding me,
in the foreground behind a sea of glows. 

then there's you. 

you, who's light peaked at the quietest of moments   
but rang loud in my ears. 
you, who whispered secrets i once didn't know,
that now fly around in the depths of my thoughts. 

your lure, your mystery, your glow
i so fondly wanted preserve within glass walls.
i was foolish to think you wouldn't have shattered them.
you had too many places to wander off to.

but i followed you,
through every place you soared through.
little did i know i was simply watching you
follow someone else. 

you brought me to this garden.
where i face the truth illuminating
in front of the abyss within my eyes. 
an infinity of possibilities present themselves before me

that could've all been you. 

but none of them shine as brightly 
as you do  ...

1. the way i love 

We all grow up seeing how love manifests itself in different ways, we've seen how other choose to show theirs. I like how I show mine. It's quiet, but not hidden. You'd feel a gentle breeze, but it wouldn't blow you away. I admire it like that; it's comforting, for both me and the ones I choose to show it too. 

2. my hair

It's a much simpler thing to pride myself in compared to my last one, but it makes me just as happy. My hairstyle has always been one of the one things I've had control over in my appearance, and it helps me place myself in different periods of my life. The short hair I had in fourth grade was when I was starting to make new friends and was trying to experiment, the longer hair I grew in seventh grade was when I started developing my own style. I can't help...

your plaid shirt sits peacefully on the loveseat.

it smells like 
coffee shops and libraries. 
a similar scent lingers 
in the ones your friends go to. 

it smells like 
daisies and roses. 
just like the ones
resting in the vase on my desk. 

it smells like 
mischief in the beach.
akin to the ocean
near the spot of my first kiss.

it smells like 
cherry blossom perfume. 
i memorized that aroma
from the cardigan i borrowed,

belonging to someone else. 

it smells like 
foolish lies and broken promises,
like excuses through phone calls, 
like lighthearted apologies, 
like a sad ending. 

the scent follows me in the morning
and suffocates me at night. 
the plaid shirt sits peacefully on the loveseat, 
where you once were. 
 

to our playground days, 

when the only thing bringing us down
was the sand in our shoes.
when they didn't tell us we had to rise, 
but we soared in our swings anyways. 

to our escapades at dark, 

when the only fear we held
was falling off our bikes.
when the only times we'd be careful
was to not touch the lines of a cobbled street.

to when we first met 

to when we were us

to when we ran 

the world 
and not 
out of time

paintings hung on walls,
stories being told through colors.
chandeliers swinging, 
dancing above the dancers.

steps resonating through the halls, 
echoing sounds of delight and tension. 
hands are joined together,
while others are clinking glasses

of sparkling champagne
meeting the lips of those in shadows.
gowns and suits, ties and corsets, 
twined into one through the touch of fingers. 

the guests dare to rise
only to hide behind their masks. 
would this be their final dance?
their bodies say yes, their eyes scream no.



 

   His hand hovered around the red string, holding shakily a pair of scissors, edging right next to the thread. The thread that, once upon a time, was a symbol of their fate. The thread that was the start of their own 'once upon a time'. The thread, that for centuries, had been twining together the pages of two different stories into one singular book. Just a little snap, and their book would be ripped apart. 

 "Don't," She warned from the other end of the room.

It was a curse, how she could be so far, yet he could hear her breaking as if she was a breath away; the sound of cracks, ringing in his ears. The seconds were passing by as slowly as a leaf falling off it's tree. He knew he could stop if he wanted to. He knew he could simply drop the hold of the thread before the leaf hit the ground. He would do it, he...

Of course, like any other writer, a wish of mine is to write more. Whether it'd be to do something as simple as jotting down my thoughts in a little notebook, or finishing a fully fleshed-out novel, I wish to write more. Most importantly, I wish for myself to always wish that. To always want to write more. To never lose the passion behind wanting to write more. As creators, there will always be the persistent feeling we carry everywhere we go, to simply create. But sometimes, we're not always in the right place to accept that feeling with open arms. Sometimes, we don't have the energy to take on the next thought and turn it into a piece of art. And that's okay. It's not something I'll deny or try to push away; I'll let those moments happen. My wish isn't to prevent them from starting; but to make sure they have an ending. I hope that somehow, some...

   His hand hovered around the red string, holding shakily a pair of scissors, edging right next to the thread. The thread that, once upon a time, was a symbol of their fate. The thread that was the start of their own 'once upon a time'. The thread, that for centuries, had been twining together the pages of two different stories into one singular book. Just a little snap, and their book would be ripped apart. 

 "Don't," She warned from the other end of the room.
It was a curse, how she could be so far, yet he could hear her breaking as if she was a breath away; the sound of cracks, ringing in his ears. The seconds were passing by as slowly as a leaf falling off it's tree. He knew he could stop if he wanted to. He knew he could simply drop the hold of the thread before the leaf hit the ground. He would do it, he...

Ares had not shed a single tear at his father’s funeral. 

He believed that one’s tears for the sake of grief came at the expense of tainted happy memories.

He didn’t carry with him happy memories; therefore, there was nothing to be tainted. 

He did however hold onto one recollection, one that he couldn’t seem to let go for the life of him. 

He didn’t remember much. He wished he remembered less. 

The night of the funeral, he tried convincing himself it was a happy memory.

He thought that if he could, perhaps he would finally be able to cry it out and get rid of it for good. It wasn’t as easy as his head had made it sound. 

 

Write a story that includes the quote, "Well . . . so much for undercover." (by livpalmbos)

Everyone in Lavender's little town held a secret. She knew quite a few of them. 

The record store owner made up stories about himself, the librarian wore glasses simply to hide the lack of knowledge she would boast about, and the virtuous florist had a secret romance with a notorious delinquent. 

And then, there was Eleanor. 

The newly-wed had recently settled in the house next to Lavender's rather mundane apartment. While her husband was out, day and night, working, she remained in.

At least that's what she had convinced everyone of. 

Lavender often saw the woman getting out of her residence in the middle of the night. She heard her heels clacking against the webbed pavement of the streets of London, in the dead silence of the obscure hours. She noticed how the blonde wouldn't sleep at night, if the reddened eyes...

A little intro to me, Shi! 

Three communities to which you belong (these can be unusual).  

• LGBT+ community! I'm bisexual to those wondering. 
• I'm a fan of BTS so apart of the ARMY I guess? 
• Well, I recently joined this community as well.

Three places you learn well (these can be unusual).   

• My bed.
• The library, which has always been a great place for me for more than just learning. 
• The cafeteria at my school, I think it's the fact that I've gotten used to doing so many last minute assignments there as well.

Three adjectives your peers would use to describe you.

• Creative, I often offer them ideas or share some of my work. 
• Independent, most people know I enjoy doing things on my own and being alone too. 
• Closed off, it's the Pisces in me. 

Three adjectives your family would use.

• Indifferent, which I'm actually not, I just don't react much perhaps. 
• Cheeky.
• Opinionated, and because of that, I...

dear 3 am, 



here, we meet again. 
i know we've seen each other a lot more than we should've. 
trust me, i know, everyone knows. 
it shows in my eyes the morning afterwards. 

i'm writing this to tell you i'm sorry. 
for making you bear all my ugliest thoughts, 
for making you hear the sounds of my wails. 
i'm sorry for being embarrassed of you,
for not wanting anyone to know how often i see you. 

truthfully speaking, i've been a bad friend. 
your darkness enveloped me in warm hugs,
you offered me the silence i needed when my head was too loud, 
and i left each time without a thank you. 
i left you in loneliness while i disappeared in a dream.

the question is long overdue but, how have you been doing?
with all the weight of my concerns on your shoulders? 
with the ghosts of my deepest regrets living within you? 
do they haunt you as much...

There, in the deep blue sky, were a series of clouds. Some were shaped like joy, others like sorrow. 

Sometimes, the clouds were heavy with tears, slowly becoming gray as a storm stirred. 

Other times, the clouds danced along with the sun during the brightest of days. 

Amongst them all, lived a moon child. 

She jumped from one to another, tearing a piece of the soft cotton-like fluff with her hand each time and then shoving it in her satchel. 

She was terrified of edging near the cloud, wondering what would await if she fell, but every step she took into the vast sky, she found herself walking with the wind, her footprints being marked with ink. 

At night, the ink shone. They formed constellations. Stars, they'd call it, arranging themselves into phrases. 

The clouds were her thoughts, the stars were her words, and the sky held her story. 

The wind blew, the waves crashed and the ship sailed. 

On the deck, there he stood, observing. His eyes wandering from the creeks and the corners, his gaze lingering on his mates. He was a quiet bird, perched on the branch of a tree. 

He observed the filthy floors, days gone by without a sweep. He observed the drained eyes of others, some hidden underneath an eye patch. 

Amidst it all, he observed the smiles. The loud ones, the quiet ones and yet, all familiar. 

He inhaled, the scent of sea and air hitting at once. At last, he soared.