imfromvenus

She sits in the cockpit, smiling at the familiar levers and buttons. Her hands caress the control panel and she feels as if everything is once again right in the world. Settling into her preferred state of mind, she lets her body move without thinking, her finger's touch on the controls feeling so natural it's as if her and the machinery are one. Roxanne clicks the airplane into gear and sets off down the runway, her excitement rising in her throat as the plane prepares to leap into the air. When she has enough momentum, the smooth, metal body of the plane becomes airborne, taking to the air so gracefully, the movement is hardly visible. S

What's the thing that makes you feel most powerful? Most people would answer: a weapon, everybody's attention, popularity, a secret... My answer is: the feeling of a pen in my hand. Why? There's no power greater than the power of a writer. When you write, you take your reader into your world; make them forget about the problems and wounds of the real world. You show them your way of thinking, make them rethink the way they see things. Being able to spin and create entire worlds, describe amazing sensations, make people laugh and cry...using only your web of words...is incredible. The words flow through you, from your heart onto the pap

A hundred miles beneath the false happiness, the fights and love stories, the bombs and the hugs, the tears and the fake smiles, the skyscrapers and the mud huts, the web of words, lies and broken promises, that form our world; there' s a place that's very different to ours. There's no shining lights, no candles in the dark, the only light comes from luminescent roots that have been twisted and deformed in the darkness and the sweet earth. In every corner hides another badly treated creature, unloved and unseen in the unforgiving shadows. There's no objective, no aims. Nothing fights to get to a happy ending or to achieve anything. Can you

She's been trapped here far too long. Her once-blonde hair is a filthy mane around her pale face. Her once-sparkling intelligent eyes are half closed and dull. Her once-flawless complexion is blotchy from her tears and scratched by her untended nails. She used to stand tall and confident, now she stoops as if wanting to disappear. Her red dress, before so vibrant and elegant, is ripped and faded. She's lost her rosy cheeks, her red lips, her curious eyes. She's blended into the colourless room, harmonizing perfectly with the dirty grey walls and musty beige carpet. The room is nearly empty, containing only a battered mattress with a faded

Delbush Avenue had always been quiet but cosy, the sense of disorder provoked by the untended gardens always made Susanna feel as if they were all friends here, all joined by the simple fact of living in the same street; sharing the agreement that gardens were for nature to take hold of, not to constantly destroy, searching for a more organized appearance. Why, they asked themselves, should they wreck what nature works so hard to make? Why not just learn to appreciate the beauty of a tangled vine, an overgrown bush, wild grass so long that it brushed your thighs when you walked through it? What was so terrible about a weed or two? ; their vib

It had been years since Amethyst had truly believed that her art was anything more than lucky guesswork. Her dusty crystal ball and lacy shawl had long ago lost their subtle meaning and sense of belonging and had become simple props. Props, making outsiders believe that her heart was still in her job; making them think that magic and destiny existed, brightening up their everyday lives and guiding them on the path that would, one day inevitably end in peace. She was beginning to wonder if that overwhelming feeling of knowing, of seeing the path that the future would take, had been only a dream, a hallucination as fake as the painted sun on h

The street was quiet and empty, the moon shining weakly onto the littered pavement and the weathered road. Only a few curtained windows shone with light; soft nightlights to comfort small children who couldn't sleep without a light, seeing only badness in the dark. The streetlights were old and dull, casting only a small circle of feeble and unsteady light around them. In the small, untended gardens outside each house, signs of their inhabitants gleamed in the pale moonlight: bicycles hastily tossed aside as the children were called in for dinner; abandoned trowels, left to gather dust as its owner gave up trying to reinstall order to the sma

Every day, I tell my friends the same things: He doesn't deserve you; If he doesn't love you just the way you are then he's not worth it; Everything will work out right; Fuck him, someday he'll look back and regret having let you get away. But I'm never able to follow my own advice.

I think that even though we'd be perfect together, Even though it would be as effortless as breathing for us, Even though I know that there's something real between us two, I think that she deserves to be happy; she deserves to have you Even though every night I'll wish you were mine.

The words I most want to hear from your lips Are not the usual lies: "I love you" or "I need you" I want to hear the truth; I want you to say, in all sincerity: "I missed you."