When you try to type an exclamation point but you miss the shift key
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weaver of words, mover of worlds.
that is the way of the bard.
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the saddest beanie baby related thing ever is still trap the mouse. no birthday
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i wonder if i’ll ever be appreciated for the sole act of my existence
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love, to me, is how my soul feels the wind, and calls to her. she answers gently, holding me in her embrace in the dark as i gaze above.
if you knew where to look, you’d see a shooting star occasionally shining, as if the night sky was shedding a tear.
maybe it’s lonely too.
as i talk to her, neck cranked up so i do not miss a single ray of light, i find that i am not scared.
these might be the darkest hours of the night, but, alone with my love, they are the ones where i feel the most free.
she wraps herself around me, and as i tell her my secrets, she whispers gently in my ear.
for once i can feel the anxiety seep out of my bones as my heart leaks out, drips from the rickety chair onto the cold tile floor.
in the morning, i’ll be afraid again. i’ll have to face the world, unstable stage on which i’ll perform in my personal tragedy.
but for now, i’ve got some time left to be myself. alone, with no one but the wind to keep my cool.
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a love that didn’t feel quite right
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