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All I know is, I would go a night without breath to watch you breathe deeply in your sleep. To feel your fingertips brush against my knuckles and slide in between my fingers. I would go months or years without laughter because all I need is yours. To share a blanket with you for one night, is worth a million cold nights without.

When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.

You will turn 18 
and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18 
and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
is burn.

When I was young, I used to pull apart my toys, just so I could fix them again. Every time I accidentally broke the arm or leg off of one of them I would surgically re-attach it with a combination of scotch tape and putty. When I was thirteen, I thought that I could do this for my friends, I thought that with my words and my love, I could fix their sickness. She unzipped her forearm and I held the wound shut. I told her she would be okay in the same way that my toys would be okay with the tape around their arms; that is to say, they were held together, but never complete. She went into hospital, it would be eight years until I saw her again. She was the first good thing I couldn’t fix. She was nothing but a friend to me and I never wanted more, but I wanted her to be okay. I saw her again after eight years and she had survived adolescence , but she will never be okay.
080714 - Sam Nancarrow
Death is something feared and written about over thousands of years. Do we write about it to understand? Or do we write because we are scared? If so, what are we scared of? For so long, poets and story-tellers have written about the cold. They have written about ceasing to exist; about the finality of death.
But that got me thinking, maybe that’s why we write, to prevent finality. We write about our earliest memories we paint ourselves into moments passed. And what remains of the great writers but those words they have thoughtfully scrawled into pages meant for few and read by many. They left a piece of themselves behind and have carried on living through their words.
I’m not scared to die, but being forgotten is too final for me.
Finality - Sam Nancarrow
asks:
Beautiful, beautiful writings.

Thank you :)

The thing about great writers is that they’re also great liars. They will write about the end of the world and tell you it’s beautiful. They’ll write it in words that land like snow and make you long for the cold. Like great writers, they’ll tell great lies. And like great lies, you’ll believe them.
Sam Nancarrow.
asks:
I just spent a while reading through your writing and reblogs. This probably is one of the most pure blogs I've seen on here. No romanticizing of pain or sadness or loss or harm. Just bare truth. We need these things and I am glad I found you. DFTBA.

Thank you for taking the time. I appreciate every single person that reads something that I’ve written.
DFTBA indeed.

When we were young, we were told that we could do anything we wanted to; we could be anything we wanted to be. We used to stay up late on weekends with friends singing around a fire, sending countless embers to dance among the stars. We were young, we were free, we were happy…

When I was thirteen years old, my best friend tried to kill herself…
She spent nine months in the psych ward of a children’s hospital. When she came home, she didn’t say much anymore. But she never stopped singing, her voice could lull oceans to sleep. She would sing and paint sunsets with her words, vivid scenes of the light of day fading into endless night. Her voice was so beautiful and full of hope. Then the whispers started…

Words like ‘crazy’ or ‘psycho’ would bounce off of classroom walls and dig holes in the back of my skull - she stopped singing. The doctors say she dug so deep that she etched lines across her bones. I just remember the blood, I held her hand and covered her wrist and begged her not to leave.

What they don’t tell you about suicide is that it is not a way out. It is not an escape or a release or any kind of symbol of freedom. Suicide is the end. And like all things that end, when they do, there’s nothing to go on to. No more light, no more fire, no more singing. So when a person decides to die. Don’t you dare call them weak. Don’t you dare say things like “easy option.” Because they fought harder than you will ever know. Their world consisted of a struggle from the second they woke up to the hours it took to fall asleep again. Putting their feet on the floor every morning is like skydiving for the rest of us. She wasn’t afraid! She just didn’t want to be sad anymore…

When I was thirteen years old. My best friend tried to kill herself. She failed, twice. Ten years later, she started singing again.

We were young - Sam Nancarrow

Now that I’m writing again, I have this journal full of half-finished thoughts and incomplete poems. 
But its nice to have something concrete.

Australia isn’t shaped like that. It looks as though someone just doesn’t like the city of Broome and decided that a big chunk of WA should be removed

Australia isn’t shaped like that. It looks as though someone just doesn’t like the city of Broome and decided that a big chunk of WA should be removed

If someone were to die at the age of 63 after a lifelong battle with MS or Sickle Cell, we’d all say they were a “fighter” or an “inspiration.” But when someone dies after a lifelong battle with severe mental illness and drug addiction, we say it was a tragedy and tell everyone “don’t be like him, please seek help.” That’s bullshit. Robin Williams sought help his entire life. He saw a psychiatrist. He quit drinking. He went to rehab. He did this for decades. That’s HOW he made it to 63. For some people, 63 is a fucking miracle. I know several people who didn’t make it past 23 and I’d do anything to have 40 more years with them.

anonymous reader on The Dish

One of the more helpful and insightful things I’ve seen about depression/suicide in the last couple of days.

(via mysweetetc)

Whatever you’re feeling right now, there is a mathematical certainty that someone else is feeling that exact thing.
This is not to say you aren’t special,
this is to say thank god you aren’t special.
Neil Hilborn - This is not the end of the world.
You know what? We’re allowed to be bitter. We’re allowed to be like “hey, you know what, you did some pretty shitty things to me, so fuck you!”
Break-ups are going to suck but there are healthier things to do than to sit around and mope. So, be bitter, break things, sever the ties and tell them you don’t fucking want to be friends! Because do you know what they’re going to do, they’re going to blame you and make you feel bad, even if its not your fault, they’re gonna make it feel like it is to make themselves feel better. So fuck them, fuck their friends and fuck everyone who has ever made you feel like a broken heart is your fault.
I demand to be felt.
Got asked if I would like to go full time at work today.

Yes, yes i would. Ive been working retail for ten years and have never been so valued in a workplace, nor have I ever been at a job where I wake up and get excited to go to work.