The future belongs to those who are brave enough to speak up about things that matter.
EMILY KURCA place where our stories are rewritten, and six degrees of separation no longer troubles us.
More Emily Kurc Quotes
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A sea of jumbled emotions I had longed to live again, a feeling that no metaphor could match.
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We all show our true colors eventually – mine is dark and firesome red. I bet I burned you. I don’t expect to see you soon.
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Men like you were never meant for storms like us.
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I have so much love to give even with these daggers still stuck in my heart.
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The sun touched your skin with innocent delicacy as if you were a work of out that was made to be admired deeply.
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My mother always told me that love is like a plant, but she never prepared me for the realization that too much love towards the wrong person can drown your heart until it rots.
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I don’t love you anymore. But each time you begin to fade it makes my heart feel numb.
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Soft and sweet and wrapped around your fingertips.
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I no longer wear my heart on my sleeve. Instead, I keep this love folded up, like a tiny paper plane, until my heart is ready to soar again.
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I bet my words are still tangled beneath that streetlight fighting for the right combination to stay.
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There was a hesitation in your touch only time could see.
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He grabbed my hand as the flames licked at my feet and the devil and I danced.
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Occasionally, the sun is eclipsed by the body of a weeping human. Her tears make the soil harden and crust like the top of a burnt load of bread.
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Each night I sit at my windowsill like a wolf howling to the moon, hoping that somewhere you feel me calling to you.
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You don’t deserve my poetry. I hate that I give you that satisfaction still.
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Leave me like you mean it. My heart can’t keep waiting for you.
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When the leaves begin to fall, I find myself returning to old playlists in hopes that I can feel you holding my hand, or kissing me goodnight, or hear you singing my name into songs and blueing when it makes no sense.
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Faded secrets and old voices have built towns inside my heart. Thats were we still meet.
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Each time I fall back in love with myself, I leave my pen and paper behind. It isn’t personal, or maybe it is. I just a always thought that poetry was for the hurting.
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I laugh and I cry and I reason on until the late night, but I never feel the urge to call you. The person that I once knew is forever frozen in time.
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I learned to make art with my broken heart.
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Be here with me tonight, and lets sing the saddest moon song there ever was.
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I woke up this morning and for once, I had no desire to drink my morning coffee. Is that how it felt for you to wake up and never return?
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Even the places we used to visit in this empty town feel lyrical. My heart can’t help but sing along even now, but I’m tired.
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I like to think of myself as the sun, but it gets really lonely all the way out here especially when everything I try to touch burns.
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I miss the sweat of september and the stickiness of the sheets.
EMILY KURC