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Writing makes it real
So others understand, but
Maybe real is worse

Maybe I shouldn't give my misery
Anymore company

something empty
in my life
feels less empty
when i write

And the quiet black stillness became a familiar friend.
Slowly reaching to an spiritual abyss,
With dark moments that regularly
strengthened myself.
As the depth of this special solitude
led me to a new realm,
I whispered my prayers
to the wind,
Into the tiny hall of awakening where messenger of the gods awaits.

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔪𝔟 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔩𝔣  
𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔒,
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔣𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔪.

Your silence
Poisons
My ears