drifting drafts

Yeah, I danced alongside my ex. But that’s exactly what our relationship was—staged.

If I could dance to the rhythm of your heartbeat, would you let me?

Sway with me.

Listen to these hushed whispers of mine, for it speaks your name.
I will comfort you and keep you close, and you shall be untouchable, save for my sweet caresses.
The world will gaze at you for leaving its confines; the world will beg you to come back to its lawlessness. I will stay your heart.

You will move with me, and no one else.

I am dancing to your heartbeat.

insaneandproudofit:

Whether it be fanfiction, original stories, drabbles, songs, poems, books, or anything that has to do with creative words, then reblog. Let’s gather all the writers of Tumblr together.

It spiraled down, and down, and down. Endless.

He felt light as a feather, not because he was at peace with himself, but because he was empty.

Deeper, and deeper, and deeper he went. Hopeless.

Clinging to memories became his existence, and it was often that he escaped there. It was a sinner’s sanctum.

He reached up to the mouth of the void, “Save me.”

The void smiled back, “This is where you belong.”

—

It spiraled down, and down, and down. It was only the beginning.

I was just thinking of you.

I started with the image of your face: how your eyes would look softly at mine, how your lips would curl to a smile even without any spoken word. Or how we would kiss each other and share our breaths, as they merge and fill our lungs. Or how you would touch my nose with yours and we would laugh about our silliness. I love how we’re not afraid to be who we are, because the world won’t judge us. Because the world is you and me. That is our world, where nothing or no one can break us or tell us what to do. We own the days and nights of our world, no one else—the mornings where your love is my sunshine, and the nights where my thoughts of you are the stars that dot my mind.

I’m still thinking of you.

It has been quite some time since I’ve picked up a pen and just started writing. I try to remember the days when I could just spill ink across the paper and craft it into art, but the memories don’t come to me. Those days are left as shadows in my mind, vague even with the hardest of efforts to perceive. I try to hear the rhythm my scribblings produced whenever the tip of my pen traversed that barren landscape. 
       Life used to spring forth from my hands. I was a painter, except that I painted with words. I brought meaning to these words, gave them substance and wove them into stories, wove them into grand epics, anything that my mind imagined. I was limitless. I was infinite. It was as if I was a god, for I could move the mountains and tame the seas; I could shake the earth and reach the heavens. But as with life, there is death. The flames of my creative passion sputtered and died.
       With the passing of time I grew restless. I could bear the silence of my thoughts no longer. Where have I banished them? I did not know where to look, but I sought them anyway. It was foolish, for they were inside me all along, caged and repressed. I let them out and oh, how they rioted! Unrestrained, they set fire to my mind and heart, but instead of putting it out, I let it burn. Soon enough, my passion was set ablaze. I saw the flames rise higher by the second, and I knew that I was alive.

       Now I clutch a pen once more.