missalyshachristine
Profile
I’m seventeen.
And I don’t comprehend the notion of time.
I like conversation.
And I play with my food sometimes.
Groups
missalyshachristine is a member of All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical and The Word Tree.
Journal Entries
i'm backk!
Posted 4 months ago, 2 comments so far.
We're on our way to a slow suicide darling.
Posted 10 months ago.
Hello world.
Posted 10 months ago, 8 comments so far.
A Monster on a Good Day and all of its parts
Posted 11 months ago, 2 comments so far.
Anyone up for..
Posted 11 months ago.
Maybe I'll just throw myself a fucking pity party
Posted 11 months ago, 9 comments so far.
OK so I realized..
Posted 11 months ago, 2 comments so far.
Melodramatics.
Posted 11 months ago, 7 comments so far.
The Road.
Posted 11 months ago, 2 comments so far.
.alone.
Posted about 1 year ago, 2 comments so far.
Art
Writing
The irony of life and death.
If I had / to choose. / I would look both ways / and still unsure / bend to pick a rose for you. It’s like the pit of an olive, this feeling. / Holding me captive. / Like that rose, in a hurric…
A quickening pulse could be the difference between a yes and no question.
I take a couples steps forward but make sure our fingertips still touch. I’ve gotta scarf around my neck and an orange leaf tucked in some curls behind my ear. I become anxious quickly to look a…
And it's around 4:05 on a day that stops at 7
I slipped my hands in my pockets and overlapped the tips of my shoes a little. I kicked at a pebble, missed and didn’t care. I pivot, smile, and lower myself to meet you. You’re sitting on…
I'm a thumb twiddler.
I’m a thumb twiddler. / You know; you’ve seen. / I hear you laugh and my breath catches in my throat as per usual. / Quickly dismissing whatever thought I’d been thinking, / I lift m…
Bitter Banter leaves Billy Bleeding
It starts as a low rumble in my stomach. Like acid bubbling up and up. Thinking about it burns my throat like it’s being eaten away. Sorry for the harsh visuals, but they bother me so why not sh…
When the whiskey runs low and my boots start to grow a little taller.
For the first time in a long length of it I cannot write. My pages no longer bleed unto another but somehow run off the page and onto my hands. Where they are stained into marks that will not come off…
