My Tranquil, Little Moon,

My atoms have always know and loved your atoms. Maybe that is why we understand each other like nobody else. Maybe our souls met in the beyond, since before our birth, in a place which escapes our imagination. Maybe we're atoms and dust from the same star, its explosion scattering us into the abyss. Yet we were fortunate enough to have met. Maybe it was our destiny to meet one another, our names written beside each other in elegant script from a divine pen and scribe high up in the heavens, watched upon by The King of all kings. We humans have labeled this partnership as "best friends" or "soul mates". Some even call us "family". These are the people who have learned the pattern of our atoms inside out and yet have the courage to love us and keep us company on this cold, space rock orbiting a burning star in the middle of nowhere. These people are always there for you, reliable and trustworthy and if that is so, then yes. Yes, you are my best friend, my soul mate, my family. May we meet again in the highest of heaven. Till death do us apart and heaven reunite us again.

If you think about it, all our thoughts and morals and feelings are plagiarized as well. We are a product of what we hear, see, speak and learn. We pick and choose what we like best while the rest goes to deep recesses of our mind.

Someone, a long time ago, wrote the same words as me, albeit in a different format. That doesn't change the fact that we both reached the same conclusions. But the issue is that my thoughts were never uniquely mine. And in all honesty, I'm learning to deal with that.

~Me

i hate everyone on twitter posting one liner quips about iran right now

"My dear, I have become so familiar with the loss of loved ones that death now seems like family and my grave feels like home."

1. Mary Oliver | 2. Katherine Mansfield

The fantasy of the human being is infinite, enjoy the piece that you get.  By Key Monster

okay but why are all gifted/talented kids gay and/or depressed now

“The Strongest Of The Strange”

you won’t see them often

for wherever the crowd is

they are not.

those odd ones, not many

but from them come

the few good paintings

the few good symphonies

the few good books

and other works.

and from the best of

the strange ones perhaps

nothing.

they are their own

paintings

their own

books

their own

music

their own

work.

sometimes I think

I see them – say

a certain old

man sitting on a

certain bench

in a certain way

or

a quick face

going the other way

in a passing

automobile

or

there’s a certain motion

of the hands

of a bag-boy or a bag-girl

while packing supermarket groceries.

sometimes

it is even somebody

you have been

living with

for some time –

you will notice a

lightning quick

glance never seen

from them before.

sometimes

you will only note

their existance suddenly

in vivid recall

some months

some years

after they are

gone.

I remember

such a one –

he was about

20 years old

drunk at 10 a.m.

staring into a cracked

New Orleans mirror

facing dreaming

against the walls of

the world

where

did I

go?

~Charles Bukowski

He said, with wise, young eyes, a single tear almost cascading down his cheek, "Ya ukhti, I cannot sleep. I had to bury my father, then my mother, then my sister." He swallowed hard, "Ya ukhti", his voice trembling, he continues, "Ya ukhti, my toys they bleed, I'm scared I'll have to bury them too."

I made a room for you in my mind.

I was foolish, I thought you were kind.

I never noticed the knife when you came from behind.

Or the chains on my arms that bind,

Or the cloth over my eyes that blinds.

I remember when I lovingly made a room for you in my mind.

I was wrong, you weren't kind

~Me