I AM A STRONG INDEPENDENT awkward teenage girl who sorta wants a man but can’t really get one
i feel this spiritually
[My last words] About you - By Miranda Volta
To: A Boy That Will Never Love Her
This is not a poem about a beautiful boy filled with beautiful words and beautiful thoughts who only sees me as a friend.
This is not a poem to talk about my feelings, to tell you that I loved you, and that now, that love is gone.
This is certainly not a poem for me to list every damn thing that took my breath away when I used to look at you.
For example, I will not tell you about your smile, or the sound of your laughter, or the way the sun used to enlighten your hair… And how those things would cause me to desperately desire a way to stop being me, so I could be someone you would like to be with.
I won’t confess either how much I cried on the night I stopped loving you. Or how I felt that day, when I realized those butterflies on my stomach that appeared whenever I saw you were substituted by emptiness and a void in my soul that caused me to wonder if I still loved you.
You never knew nothing about my feelings. And if you did, fuck you. And I hate you. Because this is not a poem for you to feel sorry about me. This is not a poem so you can catch up with what has been happening in my mind the past twelve months.
This is not a poem. This is not a letter. This is not about you.
P.S. But in a way, it is.
do you believe in meeting the right person at the wrong time ?
Darkest Hour - By Miranda Volta
The mirror was scattered all over.
I couldn’t find myself inbetween me.
My mind is my worst enemy.
I couldn’t fight it; I’m weak.
There weren’t any nails left to bite.
Just the blood, dripping my hand.
Short Love Story (a story of six word stories) - By Miranda Volta
Part I.- The Infatuation
When he smiled, she felt it.
And just like that, she knew.
They weren’t made for each other.
But they had nothing to lose.
So she loved him, flaws included.
He loved her, as he could.
Part II.- The Break Up.
On their last date, waitress payed.
She waited; the coffee cooled down.
They didn’t dare to cross eyes.
As she said it, he cried.
He didn’t even give an excuse.
When he left, she felt nothing.
the first time I heard you speak,
I felt your compassion roll like tumbleweed
over my spine,
sending shivers everywhere
I had never been touched.
we have not kissed,
but I have tasted every ounce of your subtleties.
Will you remember me after this?
Will my words make their way into your dreams?
you build your words like sandcastles
and the tides fear your strength,
I hope you look me in the eyes the
next time you see me.
I hope you see the new beginning
within my irises.
my pupils are calling your name.
will you call back?