remember this? talk about nostalgia…

Submitted by anonymous

Declare my love for you oh so proudly,
so proudly, yet in some ways so cowardly

what is love, does this description fit the key?
my heart goes faster, every time you look at me
a kid in love, “I know were destined to be”

but it wont happen, you’re too fucking good for me

my life’s just a permanent soliloquy,

don’t even know how much you fucking mean to me.

Together, shit, we’d be invincible

but to you, im so invisible.

Revolutionists in the Battle of Bunker Hill

dressed to kill, but my life’s no thrill,

nervous and stuttering, no fucking skill,

her pretty smile, so fucking loveable,

chances together, just abysmal.

No chance,  is what im implying,

busy life and terrible timing,

no time for love, no denying

so I ask should I stop trying?

stop whining, definitely stop crying.

get angry and stop replying,

go to the balcony and try out flying…

email us your shit tinytrees@live.com

or i will destroy something you own

posted by perfectascats

I think I am going to throw up. I am definitely going to throw up. You are there, I am there and the blackening sky blinds me. I can no longer see your face but I can smell your scent amongst other things…red bull, tequila, coca cola, the lingering smell of cheap impulse deoderant, him, her, sweat.
I am going to throw up soon, but I need to keep talking, keep reassuring you about certain things. I want to describe the curtains - so I do. I want to tell you how much you mean to me - so I do. I want to explain the bands I love - so I do. I keep rambling aimlessly, regretably until your lips touch mine and then I resist, I push you away and tell you that it’s not right in my own slurred nature and interpretation. Everything means the same thing. I can see where this is going, exactly where.
Regret, is all I can think. I will regret this in the morning…and I do…but I don’t. And the next day when I am curled up on the ground in your ugly, cheap sheets, I wish to be nowhere but home. But I can’t escape…that would just make things worse.
And…I go home, and I forget it all and then I see you and its repeat after repeat after repeat.

Written by dontbelievethehype

It was the day that millions of people around the world lined up outside of bookstores in order to get their hands on their very own copy of the final Harry Potter book.  I hadn’t gone to such lengths. Although I had pre-ordered a copy from Big W, and I had planned to devote the entire day to getting through as much as possible, before the ending could be revealed to me, accidently or otherwise.
By lunchtime I had read through the first few chapters. I was going strong.
Then we got the phone call.
I made my way through the next few chapters sitting in the visitor’s lounge at Nambour hospital. Several characters had already died and the action never stopped. I never stopped reading. I never stopped reading.
We were there for hours. I declined the offer for tea, water, something to eat. I just wanted to finish the book. Did I want to talk to someone? No. What was there to talk about? We knew it was coming. How could you not realize the inevitable, or see the physical warning signs?
You never told us, until you assumed we would know. You never told us she had cancer. You never told us she was going to die. You just always pulled a sad face, murmured to the rest of the grown-ups and made sure we always gave her a kiss before we left to go back home. We knew something was wrong, but it wasn’t until her hair started to fall out that we realized. You never once said the word. Cancer. And so I never cried, until it was too late.
I just wanted to read my book. I never stopped, until she died.
I never want to see a dead body again in my life.
I hated you for not using the word ‘cancer’ but I hated you more for what you did next. You made some phone calls, to friends. You sent some text messages. Telling them it was all over, I guess. Then you broke down in tears. And the rest of you finished off making the calls and sending the text messages.
Where was your respect? Where was your pain?
I finished the book. I stayed home from school the next day and finished it.
It was my only form of escape. It’s always been my only form of escape.

tinytrees@live.com

we strive on it.

Written by starsnatcher

And we were alive right then. There was no sun, but there were stars. There was no wind, but there was air, air to remind us we were alive. And the whole night, out on the lawn shivering in the dew as it tread lightly over the grass, over our eyelids and cheeks, we dreamt of each other.

Written by ledgelife

It wasn’t cold, I remember, when you tried wrapping your arms around me in bed. I pushed you back a little bit, irritated, but hiding an inner smile. I didn’t know if you were joking or serious, given the fact that we were in a room full of familiar faces, sleeping familiar faces. I felt your foot graze my leg. It sent shivers through me… the heat of your breath on my nape. I couldn’t stand it.

I slipped out of bed and looked at you, silently laying there, eyes closed, like an angel. With a quiet flurry of my feet, I walked out with a cloud of confusion over my head. I lay back on the stiff long chair in the common room all night, thinking about your advances. I still think about it this day and what could have been.

thank you for the big response. but sure, following is cool, but submitting your own memories too us at tinytrees@live.com is way cooler.

we’d love to hear from you.

Written by dontbelievethehype

On the couch, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on the television. You were at one end, I was at the other. Those were the unspoken conditions. Two years difference was all that you could think of when you looked at me. Occassionally, it still is. 
It was cold outside. It was anything but inside.
I had never seen the movie before. You told me “it was exactly my type”. You liked to introduce me to new things. You liked to show me things that reminded you of me. To you, I was Holden Caulfield in The Catcher In The Rye. To you, we were Henry and Claire in The Time Traveler’s Wife. 
To you, life is a book. To me, life is a book. 
There was no skin on skin, only sock on sock. You held my legs, I held my gaze on the television screen.
“You did shave your legs” - previous conversations that were nearly next to forgotten. But then you found the spot I missed around the ankle.
The movie plot had lost me. You hadn’t.
It was dark, you wore reading glasses. You were seventeen, I was fifteen. You knew more than I even wanted to imagine. 
This scene was the beginning. Or rather, the proof I needed that there was going to be a beginning.
The headlights on the driveway were unwelcome. We straightened the cushions, sat on separate couches and let our imaginations create what we couldn’t yet in person.