• spilled soul •
The clock hits twelve. A new set of 365 sunrises and sunsets has arrived And may the sunrise offer happiness And may the moon offer me forg...
12:31am I thought I was over you… 12:32am I lied 12:35am Did you ever miss me, at all? 12:48am Why her? 1:28am Was I not good enou...
Depression is not Lana Del Rey music, with smeared black eyeliner and tears running down your face. It is not a blood-stained tub, or the bl...
Call me And tell me you miss me. Call me And tell me  How your bones are brittle. That they are aching to be held By hands that are calcium...
Two years later A girl sits in front of her ex lover. He doesn’t say a word And her heart doesn’t ache for him anymore. Her hair is long...
Dear you beautiful soul, please stop judging yourself.
It’s the little things. Sunsets, coffee, long drives, Giggles, sappy movies, ice-cream, deep conversation, cozy socks, and music. Thes...
Night time is harder somehow. Perhaps it is the darkness, that always feels lonelier than the daylight. Or perhaps it is just that the rest ...
Your soul is made of a million colours that this world has not even dreamed of.
Have you ever sat in complete darkness with someone? Somehow the words feel heavier and the phrases deeper, and all of a sudden the room is ...
It strikes me that some people still fall in love with faces and not souls.
Once I started making an effort to nurture my soul, that was when my life flourished into something extraordinary.
Sometimes you just need an adventure to cleanse the bitter taste of life from your soul.
There is a space in my heart for your soul to curl up in when the world becomes too cold and lonely.
I pour my entire soul, into anything or anyone I’m passionate about. 
Then, I wonder why I feel so empty.
She laughs too much and doesn’t cry enough, and that suffocated sigh between her laughs tells you how scarred her soul is.
Writing is an intellect’s way of bleeding.
This isn’t the real me, yet it is. There’s different versions of me, and they’re all the real me. And you know what? That kills me. It...
The truth is this: Pain and sadness may be the fuel that feeds the flames of our words, but in the end it will always be the joys-the wonder...