expr:class='"loading" + data:blog.mobileClass' onselectstart='return false'>

16 de abril de 2015

Your thoughts are prettier than your face. And you are already fucking gorgeous.

14 de abril de 2015

Be patient. I'll get better.
I promise.
And if it was possible to die from missing someone, it surely would it be from someone like you

5 de abril de 2015

our love was never the same

And baby I know we're walking towards different directions, our roads don't take us to the same destination, because when you think about going South, I've already reached North, and every time you think about getting closer, I'm already gone.

31 de março de 2015

Messy hair, messy thoughts

I know your head is a mess. I know that damn fine, okay?
I know that you don't have a clue about what you're doing or where you're going but I can assure you it's not such a good place. All you've done so far is shit - you hurt yourself, you're a fire that keeps burning all the stars in your orbit.
I extinguished you for a bit, but the result was that when you lighted again, you burst into a even bigger fire. Tho I thought I was made of water, I got burned. Fuck, I got burned.

You pushed away the only soul in this fucking world that was willing to understand your mess. I guarantee you - I will not keep pushing through the flames.

I hope you find someone better than you. I hope you find someone that you don't deserve and let it change you. Let yourself get burned enough to want to become less explosive.

My deception is not aimed towards me - I'll put some band-aid and my cure isn't very far. My deception aims at you. Because I don't think there's many people willing to help you shape your future, or at least bring some light to your present. The reality is that now, you're alone. And I don't think you quite realize it. But when you do, it's gonna be too fucking late. My clock is ticking - it points to half past goodbye.

30 de março de 2015

The road to happiness is paved with the tiles that were once trown at you

Little Alice

The little girl wore her heart on her sleeve. It kept falling, being stepped on, and put back into place like it fited. She learned new ways, so hidden it in a place where it couldn't be seen. Or touched. Only dreamed about. It was only hers. She was hers. She was her own owner and every once in a while, was that fact close to changing.

Every now and then she considered letting it out, but no one stayed long enough to see the secret spot, to dig deeper enough, to search with the right tools, to watch with the right eyes. Every time there was a bump, the heart got more and more sinked, floating in bottles of bad wine, swalled in nights of pain and uncertainty. That's how she liked her drink - with a lot of ice and a good dose of misery.

She never met the feeling of being falling upon free will - there was always something that gave her the push to trespass the border.

Her world was seen through realistic eyes, and she knew: People always come with death, love always brings deception and alcohol always brings hangover. She just preferred the last evil.

25 de março de 2015

a melancolia é a melhor mão que pode pegar na nossa caneta. Então se fizeres tristeza seu papel...