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stupid, foolish me

my heart is yet to remind me that he wasn't worth it and my person is still out there, finding me. even though every fiber of  my being wants to jump out  the window, run to his house, break down the door and say,  Here I am,  I'm here because I hate that I love you. and then he'd just give me one of those smiles and say, Why do you think I ended it in the first place? Go back home. I don't want you here. I don't want you here, I don't want you here. and then I'd walk back home in peace and quiet. forgetting the rules of the game.

a boy and his friend pt. 2

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Two And so it began, my crumbling apart. The next morning i blocked and deleted every single contact from my phone. My contacts list was blank, as well as the 20 missed calls from my mother. Mark made himself some eggs and i managed to make myself something edible. My head was still pounding and i was groggy, but i was alive. Like mark said, i was the only person in the world who could get absolutely out of it just from espresso shots. Maybe a heart attack would kill me before i did. “Maybe we should meet up with my friend tonight,” Mark said, stuffing his mouth with overcooked eggs. “Funny thing is that she’s looking for a guy but i dont wanna date her. Shes kinda like you in a way, really. No offense or anything, shes really freaking smart.” “Are you trying to set me up?” “Maybe. Wanna meet ‘er?” I thought about this for a while, considering my options. That was, if she even liked me. I could finally explore, maybe. Maybe that would help light another spark in me. “S

h.c.

she was the one thing  that kept me alive my soul, burning her special fireplace the cuts and bruises  she made for me and I for her the lips she parted and the words I stole the love I bought with my heart. oh, hold me together and never let go help me back together again with molten wax and things you find around the room help me back together again with molten wax and things you find around the room. - a.m.

growing up

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poetry by amanda m. It's crazy how we all grow up, go our separate ways.. We see each other but don't recognize each other, and we leave with a memory in the past. It's crazy how everything can feel so real and alive in the moment that it happens. And you think to yourself, this will never end. Yet, later on it always does.  We keep that feeling close to our hearts while we have it, and the people in that feeling even closer. Some of us remember it, some of us never do. And it hurts. Oh, it hurts and hurts and hurts, knowing things will never be the same. Adolescence is a thing of the past, and we're all moving on now. Some of us got to experience our teenage years, others didn't. Either way, we're doing something--anything--to prove to the world we're not rotting in our basements. To prove to our parents that we're not failures and they didn't raise a hopeless case. To prove to others that we're in our right minds. Yet still we're all connec

a book about a boy and his friend running away from home

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This post was going to be a book review for the book 1984 by George Orwell, until I realized I already wrote one just like it and I don't even remember anything in the book to rant about. Talk about memory problems.  So, to fix my dilemma, here's the beginning chapter from a book I was writing that I inevitably gave up on. Some parts are weird but overall I did a pretty decent job. I think. (This totally isn't an excuse for me not to write tonight.) Anyway, If I'm going to record all my writing and words before they disappear, I guess this is a good way to start. P.S. I know there are typos. When I want to get a lot of words out at once there's no time or need for correct punctuation.  Chapter one I dont always remember being like this. I was once a normal person, at least in my head. Then i grew up and became a stranger. A stranger to myself. My friends would tell me im crazy if they were still around, if i didnt push them off for no reason at all. I think we all h

writing again (again)

Well, this is probably the millionth time I've done this. I've lost count, but maybe my brain is doing the counting for me. Hopefully this blog will be a journey (a good one, not a bad one) and maybe it'll even help someone. Maybe it'll even help me as well, even though that's probably asking for too much. I'll probably be sporadic and weird and all over the place, but I'm letting you know right here and right now that I'm not going to delete any of the things I write from now on. So if you see this message one day and it's gone the next, I give you permission to give me hell for it. My mind has kind of been everywhere lately. And nowhere, all at once. At least I can tell you that the words have never been there. They used to be there. Sort of. But I guess just like Pablo Picasso, great minds work backwards. So I might as well record the amazing words I have left before they disappear with everything else. Wow, I really do write better at night. Anyw