No Survivors.

We’re enslaved to the things we can’t control, that’s life. Our faults are the things we can change, and don’t. We go through life with such slow precaution in fear of losing what we have, despite not knowing what it is. Life takes prisoners but leaves no survivors so don’t settle for a life, confined within your worries. Don’t sacrifice control of your future for security in right now.

Dreaming of Perfection.

Don’t skip dinner with friends or pass on a tall glass of wine. Don’t stand in front of the candles on your Birthday cake, wishing for them to be gone and don’t count down the days to Thanksgiving like you count down the calories until you’re ‘full’. Don’t let the seconds in your day, waste away like the numbers on your scale.

I would love my faults if I believed you ever could but for as long as you hold my hand loose and let your eyes stray, I will understand beauty to be what they want. I will stand in front of the mirror and suck in my stomach. I will flip celebrity magazines and dream of perfection. I will wake up early to hide the things I hate and I will wrestle with myself, when I can’t be enough.

I will look at the floor when he tells me my smile’s pretty. I will argue non-stop when he says I’m perfection. I will run the other way when he grabs for my hand because I’ll remember to you, I wasn’t enough. 

I will reject the idea of love until I find someone to teach me that life isn’t about how you look. It’s about the person looking at you.

A Stand Still Escape.

You have no where to be except the depths of your dreams.
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It’s the time of night when your phone doesn’t ring and there’s nothing on TV. The food tastes better, the drinks are colder and the hours move slower. The world goes to sleep, while you come alive.

You have no where to be except the depths of your dreams and they’ll wait, because you’ve found a sense of calm while awake and for once, everything seems perfect, and flawless, and silenced of all wrong. It’s a stand still escape. A sight for tired eyes.

The Kind of Life We Hate to Want.

There’s no better time to embrace who you really are,
then a time when no one has a clue.youngandtwenty.com

Our teen years fixate on the popularity of the girls with pretty long hair and a drinking problem. The jock like boyfriends that would bend over backwards to hold their books and the instant glamour found, when accessorizing with pink.

It’s the kind of life we hate to want.

We try to find normal so far from what we know, but it’s a matter of time before we realize people don’t change, they simply can’t. We can fight who we are for as long as we have the strength but eventually it’s inevitable and we give up the act.

The twenties come with a lot of hardships. A lot of obstacles we must overcome, but while we’re occupied with the more serious problems life offers, we forget to pretend to be someone else, and there is no better time to embrace who you really are then a time where no one has a clue.

Empty Words.

Our conversations are full of empty words.youngandtwenty.com

 It’ll be a simple, straight forward text,  what’s up?

My thumb will hover over the letters on the keyboard, aching to tell you about my insecurities, my deepest fears, my over-ambitious goals. I’ll backspace the lines I wrote, flustered about the things that keep me up at night and my fear for what’s to come. I’ll wish I could tell you about the music I play on repeat, the poetry I recite in my mind, the things that make me cry, every time I watch the news.

Instead, our conversations are full of empty words. They’ll keep us from growing and they’ll keeping us from caring but not differently will my stomach will toss and turn as I take a deep breath and respond, not much, you?

People Who’ve Seen the Dark.

We should all be so luck to find someone who’s seen the dark, for those people know how to shine light when we need it ourselves.
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We should all be so lucky to find someone whose seen the dark for those people know how to shine light when we need it ourselves. But sometimes the people who’ve seen the dark, choose to leave their problems there.

Sometimes we’re scared of hugging, in fear of them holding too tight. Sometimes we’re scared to pick someone up, in fear of them pulling us down. Sometimes we’re scared to save someone’s life, in fear we’ll forfeit our own. And sometimes we’re scared to share the lessons we learned, in fear of retracing our path.

The Wish for One More Chance.

You continue to look his way. You disregard the eyes of affection,
the genuine people who come up. The ones who can rewrite your pain.
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 Heartbreak is the sorrow of a lonely bird. The crumbling of an expired cake. The nostalgia of a top-40 song. It’s the disbelief, the regret, the wish for once more chance. It’s the unchangeable mind that this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

But how many times can you let the same person defeat you? You sacrifice your self-worth because you settle, and you accept. You continue to look his way. You disregard the eyes of affection, the genuine people who come up. The ones who can rewrite your pain.

They’re begging for your time and attention like you’re begging for his. 

Stigma in Being Single.

Why isn’t it okay to be alone when in fact, the loneliest lonely can be found in someone’s arms.
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Love is rarely right the first time. A statement we chose to ignore yet a statement we chose to challenge. It’s a cruel concept. It’s cruel to define life as an ongoing struggle of finding someone who loves you, for you. It’s even harder when you’re different. When your weaknesses are harder to turn a blind eye to. When you don’t even love yourself.

You don’t need to be held when you cry. You don’t need someone to blanket you with concern. It’s the stigma in being single. People can’t understand how you can want to be alone. How you can live day after day without a good morning kiss or year after year without a Valentine’s date.

They tell us our lives have voids, but they can’t tell us what makes theirs different, and so we wonder, why it isn’t okay to be alone when in fact, the loneliest lonely can be found in someone’s arms.