Tees Teatime - Tumblr Posts

about me ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎

I'm "tee", I'm 16 !

I made this blog just to scribble some stuff down, my own online journal <3

You will see some of my own pics and quotes I've gathered but the rest is mainly reblogs

don't take this srsly !!

I have little to no experience in writing but please don't be too harsh!

I'm open to any and all form of constructive criticism :3

I'm rlly into literature and sociology too, I'd love to have someone to discuss these things with! :o

Page 1. All my own work, always.

Once upon a dream,

I saw it gleam, your great excalibur surges from its sheath, how can it be?

Your knuckles are porcelain around the dishevelled handle, unfamiliar sight, doesn’t look right to see the delicate bloom of health seated uncomfortably upon the crude throne of death. Your hand upon the handle.

Hues from your peach gilded skin shift like seabeds and sandy shores. Unfamiliarity surges forth from the linear scape of your trembling hand, the wide expanse of your fleshy palm reflects the glimmer of a gallant weapon. The harsh pearly shimmer, a sharp contrast against the intimate pink of your skin.

Feels like a God ordained sin. Rustic scent, heavy in the air, burdensome on the mind. Haven’t we been here before? Amongst the poplar trees and a soft, subtly sweet breeze. You’re perfumed with stoic sweat, catching the misty sheen of sunlight as it angles in on you, a nimbus playing around you- brighter than the glare of God. You’re crowned with glory. And I am dethroned. Your faith prevails. Mine fails, falters, falls upon its knees.

You subdued sins. I screamed in wretched agony.

collection: inexperienced, inexpensive (all my own work)

hold me in the halls of heaven,

comfort me in the most sorrowful pits of hell,

and then I will know, I have been loved.

2. Tragedy is a great thing to have in life, I find it keeps me humble and always aware of the unexplainable and inevitable miracle of death.

3. For me, my whole life has been a constant reminder of this second journey but my soul is all too tainted and tired now, so I would prefer to nap with the Angels and be fed heavenly sustenance as if I am God’s greatest friend and not a weak soul with weak faith.

I do envy Abraham. I do envy Moses. I even envy my mother, who had more credence than I, no matter how life tested her. I envy and I strive and I beg.

Envy the pious, strive to become the pious, beg to become the pious.

Until you are a fraction of what you once wanted to become.

Or you lose yourself trying,

like me.

Venerable, you live up to your name. Part 1: Voice.

“ accorded a great deal of respect, especially because of age, wisdom, or character. ”

Your honey-suckle voice, characterised with soothing undertones of an unknown accent -an enigma I am yet to unfurl - viscous with laughter as it bubbles out from the silver jar of your throat and into the room, bumping carelessly against the ceiling, like the bees bump lazily into pretty, prepossessing flowers on a hot, leisurely summer evening. Your voice seems to effervesce as it sweeps by my hears, fizzing static in my mind as I lean in closer to the luminescent screen from which I am able to take enjoyment from hearing your laughter. And I do just that.

Take pure joys from your joys. Take happiness from your happiness. Take laughs from your laughter to keep as my own, a selfish selfless little gift which I pocket; a little treat which I can savour later as I call to mind every memory of you so I can make my day last a little longer into the feverish night.

My focus may falter from your words - which I am positively sure I must pay more attention to - but I cannot, for the life of me, let these moments pass me by. So I sit.

And I observe.

And I capture. And I remember.

Like I did last night, like I do tonight, like I will do for every night until your voice is here with me; tucked away into the corners of every room, residing in the cobwebs, living in the breeze blowing through my unlatched window.

I will miss your voice most of all, sweet.

But I will miss how I missed you, with such love, and passion, and need.

My muse, my secret source of solace, my recollection of you, Sebastian.

Your voice, a tape I want to play until it replaces my own thoughts. Your voice. Your voice. Your voice. Replace me and make me your voice.

Careless: a collection which takes minimal effort

Venerable

Wisdom and wit, 

You have enough of it,

Kind enough to share,

Kind enough to care, 

Every hour went by without so much as a glare, 

From your dark eyes,

In which brightness resides, 

And sorrow is ashamed to hide, 

Deep within the wrinkles on your brow, 

Blessed with Earthly beauty, 

Adorned with Heavenly vows, 

But I am afraid that now, 

Within my own desolate daydream, 

I have become infatuated with the thought of you, 

But in love with you, 

The whole of you. 

All of you. 

You.

2:

Your father was wise, 

I can tell by the look in your eyes, 

As you recall what he used to say,

Serious and mingled with dismay, 

You relay to me a quote, 

A simple anecdote, 

Which I will take with me to the grave, 

A piece of your life, 

With which I will lay, 

Day and night,

I hear it play, 

In the back of my mind, 

And though I try to push it away, 

You have decided to forever stay, 

Though try as I may,

To forget and displace the thought of you, 

You come running back, 

The whole of you. 

All of you. 

You.