Hello! I try to limit mass tagging, but I have a sort of survey that requires a larger audience. It's one quick question that should be relatively easy to answer with one of three answers in the comment section if you are able to respond.

The question: Do you keep a list of fragments of words or scentences that you think of randomly and write/type just in the possibility that you will later add them to pieces you write?

Yes - I do write down small fragments of thought to add to pieces I write later.

No - I do not write down small fragments of thought to add to pieces I write later.

Other - (Explanation as to what you do)

Thank you!

solitude can be okay too.

i.

her heart bloomed petals long ago; instinct told her

never let them go, so she buried the roots in the soil

she calls home; daisy, she enjoys being alone. & yes,

her heart cries for a lover she has yet to know, but for

this brief pause in eternity, she doesn't mind the quiet

nights, she spends alone. daisy, she finds reading just

as happy as her friends find partying, or even more so.

she finds him, she loves him, she says, run your hands

along my curved spine, love me younger, it's divine.

ii.

he's been broken, countless times: so he built walls

from pretend, it's his pain he tries to hide. that's when

he found, the peace in sleeping, when stress is weeping

from the corner of his dreams, he finds the purest form

of clarity. & he didn't need much beyond simple love,

but without it he would've never realized, he found

quiet days of hiking far more appealing than screaming

hallways that're constantly mocking.

he find her, he loves her, he says, let's take it slow, baby,

don't you know, i've been down this road.

iii.

they tell her, it's all in her head, that daisy simply couldn't

understand; but youth isn't unyielding, it's naively forgiving,

but daisy's always lived, with her heart striding; why change

that now, when being alone suddenly feels confiding? so when

courage leaps out, into her arms, daisy faces the world; only

he is what her gaze had held.

together they'll love, with an unspoken knowing; an understanding

that strings their hearts together, it's quite heartwarming. and

together they'll spend their days talking or simply listening; just

as much as they appreciate their quiet nights alone in their room.

solitude doesn't mean one ever stops loving you.

she finds him & he finds her, she loves him & he loves her,

they both say, careful, i may end up loving you.

ironic, how they already do.

I wasn’t expecting to see you today.

Of course, I hadn’t even dreamt of your face until tonight,

but I am not complaining, believe me.

Oggling you from across the room never bore fruits,

but Cupid had a bigger fate than I had in mind.

You approached me slowly, over the dimly-lit bar,

and though I refused a drink, your eyes drunk me in,

and I had to pretend I didn’t care at all.

Has anyone ever told you you have dashing lips,

a dancing smile, conspirant eyes?

Of course, we traded jokes, our ages just a few digits between,

and I thought, my God, if you’re not a creation from above, who are you, really?

You held my eyes for a second longer than anyone else did

and when the night was over, I refused to go home,

digging my heels on the mud,

until we traded addresses.

In my room, I paced at night, feeling giddy and stupid,

a college girl with a crush.

Of course, I took my makeup off, wondered if you could love such imperfections,

grew petrified thinking you already had imperfections of your own to adore at home.

Tell me, did I make a fool of myself this evening?

I prayed, habitually, thinking I would see you soon again,

my thoughts echoing your name until you came back.

Such a wonderful, unexpected delicacy.

I was wonderstruck, afraid your heart was already in a cage,

when mine was exactly beating out of it.

And you know what they say, fate tests us.

That sparkling night, blushing in my nightgown,

it’ll replay forever, or until that coy smile of yours laughs at me again.

Whichever comes first.

One thing I didn’t say, though I wish I did.

I was enchanted to meet you.

____

yes, mom, i wrote this piece listening to ‘enchanted’ by taylor swift and yes, it was incredibly fun. don’t judge.

thank you for reading!

- mel

I've copyrighted the nickname B. The person for whom it is for knows who they are, and if I catch you calling them B, I will (not) take you to court. It's mine.

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Okay, so this post was meant to be lighthearted. Nobody is gonna go to court, but trust me. That nickname is not for you to use!

and in it i taste all the streets of the city; the grittiness of sidewalks, market stalls, stacks of steaming bowls fresh from the dishwasher, that last cold sip of tea, paper packets of pepper, smoke and oil and spice. and it's not delicious, exactly, but warm, real, so real that it can't be categorized or ignored. in this strikingly orange and red soup lies the sunset and the sunrise, each spoonful as constant as all things are in space.

I'm an overthinker.

I can't help but wonder why something happens.

I stare at a text I sent hours ago, wondering how the recipient will respond.

I'm a people pleaser.

I can't help but think about what others think of me.

I always seem to need everyone's approval.

I like watching scary movies, but never at night.

I tie my shoes a little weird.

I still wish upon the stars like a little kid.

I pretend I live in New York City when no one else is around.

I listen to music when I feel sad.

I write stories when I feel empty.

I tell myself things I know aren't true.

I do my homework ahead of time.

I name inanimate objects that surround me to make me feel less alone.

I worry too much.

I cry too much.

I think too much.

Today was a horrible and terrifying and heartbreaking day in the United States. People died, and what happened went against everything that has ever been worked for in this country. I know that some of you may have a different opinion about Trump and this country than I do but what happened today was disrespectful, violent, and absolutely unacceptable.  This isn't something that is supposed to happen in the United States, we are supposed to be a representation of hope and freedom. Today, we were not. 

Stay Safe everyone, & I am hoping that everything gets better for everyone in this world. I know it's been a terrible year for everyone, and I hope that slowly things will get better. 

Well I hope that once this is all over, 

that once the winter has thawed &

yet another year has passed &

we forget the details of what it was like to live through this.

Once we have moved on, to something,

once again familiar & expected.

I hope you will know how you gave me hope,

when no one & nothing else could.

I do not know you, I have never even met

a shadow of who you are now but 

with one glimpse of your face,

so hopefully in a time where untruths are everywhere 

& pain is more relatable than happiness. 

With one glimpse of your joy at leaving 

such a thing behind you, with the hopeful look, 

that you push towards what is to come, 

you have given me hope, 

when nothing else could. 

Thank you.

Humans are like glass. At first, we are able to withstand so much wear,  so durable against the words thrown at us, so unaware of the judgment. But then slowly we start to notice. Day by day, cracks appear in the glass, the seams start to tear apart, and soon, if we aren't careful we will shatter into thousands of pieces. Thousands of pieces of shattered dreams & ambitions, of remaining hope & fear. Microscopic pieces of who we once were, before we lost control.  I don't want to break, promise me you'll stay, promise me you won't let me break. 

Heavy rain is falling, invisible in the blackness, seeping through the earth, carrying its memories & stories with it, remembering every word & every thought & every life it has touched. Tonight, the rain is full of ghosts, it is brimming over with the stories which, to them, are so familiar. Oh, so many stories. 

And the windows can hear those stories, and they repeat them to the empty darkness. They know everything, every secret whispered in the dusty twilight, every word spoken to the wind. Some days, when they can’t keep it in, they begin to speak, their voices light and airy, like low cries, or the wind through the trees. Right now, as the cold creeps under the doors & covers the floor with a thin layer of frost; they are whispering one story in particular, one memory that the rain is shrieking. 

Today, they are extra loud, and for the first time, if I listen really hard, I can hear what they are saying.

Footnotes: Prompt used. Prologue to a new short story.