People always ask me what I think of my parent’s country.

I reply;
the homeland of my parents and their parents before them
a country that has seen many of my family live and die
contains my childish laughter when I would go to visit,
broken Spanish as I got older because people forget
when they immerse themselves in their new place to fit in.

The desert that would always memorize me when I would play
machismo that I saw when my mother spoke too loud,
el dulce which made me remember the little things in life,
a time when my parent’s would speak to me in a tongue
that brought them joy and not broken English which
always sounded too rough and misplaced in their mouth.

The days when my mother and father got worried
of taking me when there were soldiers in the town
where they grew up because times change and not
everything is truly safe. When my uncles got beaten up
because they didn’t pay the fee of protection,
mistaken identities led to mistaken deaths,
I don’t remember who died for what anymore.

Mexico is a place where my heart belongs
because I was raised there as I was raised here
my tongue speaks two languages, my hands hold two lands
somehow in the bottom of myself I see two places
where I will live and die. I was made of neighbor countries,
I have rivers and deserts inside of me, marking me.

People ask me what I think of my parent’s country.

I reply;
the other half of my heart.

Absolutely love this ^_^

Source: changingfiction

Something’s missing.
Lying here in the bed
I share with you.
The ghost of you lingers
in the sheets. The smell
of your shampoo, perfuming
the pillows.

It feels empty, an
incomplete jigsaw. Just
one piece missing. I’m
a sonnet that’s one line
short. Even the stars
outside seem hollow.

You’re not here beside me.
The mattress keeps a memory
of your shape. I run my
hand across the covers,
tracing your outline.

I need you here.

Source: tenmilesfromhome

She was his
worst kept secret.
They spent so many
nights, sneaking around
like a pair of
school kids.

She fell for him
as hard as it was humanly
possible. He barely
acknowledged her. Only
used her to satisfy his
own selfish needs.

That was until his
better half found out.
Gods and humans don’t
mix too well. Hera
made an example of her.

Taking everything that
Lamia held dear. One by one,
her children were slain.
Lamia’s tears fueled Hera’s

Now she moves through
the night, doing to others
what was done to her.
Cursed to be a monster
for being a whore to
a fickle God.


Brittle glass
but hardly ever
handled with care.

Such fine
tolerances. No
margin for error
or carelessness.

with clumsy fingers
and caveman delicacy.
So easily broken…

Still we throw them around
like worthless toys.


I’ve been watching owls
and foxes traversing
darkened streets.
Only flashes of their fur
and feathers in the

Shadows are my new friends.
Stretching long across
walls and pavements
with no sun left in the sky.

Tired eyes watching the
black night sky get lighter
as the hours tick by. Sleep
starting to seem a better

I crawl beneath the sheets.
Drifting into a dream world
as the sun rises. Owls
and foxes slink away into
their hideaways.

We all wait for
the night-time again.


So I accidentally made a RP blog for Braum (the new LoL champion) because he seems really cool and I have never looked forward to a champion more ^_^


thats the URL if anyone is interested.


She held an ice cream
in her tiny hand as we sat
at the sea wall at by
Weston Pier.

She tentatively licked
at it, its coldness making
her wrinkle her nose.
The sea air swept sand
particles up against the
old rocks of the wall,
smoothing them down.

A scene of tranquility.
She smiled at me with an
uncertainty and sadness.
As if she knew that life
was all downhill from here.




A quick look at British and American spelling

whilst and while are used in different contexts, in britain. both words are used, but they’re not the same word. if that makes sense.

Also, Draught and Draft have completely different meanings as do Metre and Meter. This list is actually horribly inaccurate.

(via nadthejager)

Source: medium.com


Jesse Parent - “To the Boys Who May One Day Date My Daughter”

"If you break her heart, I will hear it snap with the ear I pressed against her mother’s belly."

From the Coaches Slam at CUPSI 2014. This performance has the longest sustained break for applause we’ve ever seen a poet have to take.

(via undeadwondergirl)

Source: buttonpoetry
  • Question: OMg you're British aren't you? Do you know Piers Morgan? What do you think of him? - Anonymous
  • Answer:

    What is with the weird questions tonight?

    Yes I am British.

    I don’t know him personally but I know of him.

    I think he’s so uptight you couldn’t draw a needle from his arse.

  • Question: Like why hav u got a link to a band no-one's heard of on ur blog?? Like cany u hav like 1d or sumthing??? They ar soooo much better and like Zayn is soooo hot hes my hero. - Anonymous
  • Answer:

    Simple as that.


I’ll hold you close to me
in the small hours
whiles the rain falls.
White shirts turn translucent
in the pale streetlight.

The rumble of a late run
bus echoes in the emptiness
of the graveyard hours.
Rats and foxes commune
around restaurant dumpsters.
A scavenger’s banquet.

We stand still, in the midst
of a storm. The rain falling
faster as we sink, start drowning
in each other’s eyes.

Falling deeper in love as
the weather makes rivers
run down underground footpaths
and the soft glow of the
street lamp is like a
spotlight, holding us in
centre stage.

We’ll kiss with wet lips,
hips pressing together
as hands clasp at necks
and the backs of heads.

I want to fall in love with you
in the rain at two in the morning.

  • Question: Youre are realy a pretenchus cunt arent ya? - Anonymous
  • Answer:

    I don’t if I’m more insulted by the truly atrocious spelling or the lack of punctuation. Either way, I just can’t believe some of these people might end up with jobs later in life when their grammar is this unbelievably bad. Go back to school anon except this time:



Each syllable fell heavily
against my eardrums,
straining the membrane
as it tried to cope with
the weight of his words.

Each one strung after
the next. None of which I
wanted to hear. Each one
sinking into me, perforating
my skin. Tracer fire.

A strange sense of deja vu
as I realise I’ve heard these
same words before. In a time
apart, with a different person
but the exact same words.

The song always seems to
play out as it has every time
before - with shrugged shoulders
and questions left unannswered.

The same sense of
loneliness creeping in.
An old bed-fellow
who I had never missed
slots himself into the
space you used to sleep.

A perfect fit.


Hey guys.

So, I am currently a little blocked writing-wise. Kind of run out of ideas one what to write poems about. Have any of you lovely lot got any reasonable suggestions?