She was like
An old, dusty book,
Always closed. Never seen.
Always neglected. Never touched.
She felt as useless
As an empty pen,
Once she was used up.
She walked like
Someone who hadn’t slept
In a week,
Not dead but also not living.
She smelled of roses,
The kind of roses
That sat by an old gravestone.
She wore sweaters
That covered her wrists,
Because she was an artist.
The kind of artist
That carries a silver brush,
And only paints
I know I’m useless dad, you don’t have to remind me every single second.
Ich habe ein riesiges Talent viel zu sagen, und doch nichts aus mir heraus zu bekommen.
(white girl voice) wait lemme go to the bathroom
are you saying only females of the white race urinate
i am an asian female and i can back this up, i havent urinated since 1902
How old r u
*whispers* how long have you been 17
I know what you are
Say it.Say it out loud.
WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THIS POST.
teacher: Where is your homework?
me: I didn’t do it, it’s a metaphor
don’t shit on people for having self confidence and being happy with their appearance like how bitter are you