Night is just night,
without it being told that
it should be dark
and sunless.

It is what it is,
by its own definition.
It does not need stars to shine
In order to make darkness meaningful.

Still, the stars shine.
They do what they do
Without self-acknowledgement,
They simply do.

Be.
Like night and stars
And meaningfulness
And Self-acknowledgement.

she rises in the evening,
and the sunset paints her pink.
she shakes off the sleep
that hangs heavily from her eyelids,
and when the orange sky darkens,
she is alive.

the inky blue air shimmers with secrecy.
she smiles for the first time since waking.
how little, and yet how much the dusk hides;
for when the sun surrenders to the moon,
the waking are their truest selves,
set free by the mask of night.

I am sewing a dress
with the thread of strength,
And knots of ambitions,
And when it’s ready,
Then will iron it
with the remission,
I am sewing my broken soul!

By: Nida Mahmoed.

It’s not good.
It can’t be healthy
to find the things
that hurt me
and watch them
repeatedly.

But it is the only path
I know how to follow
to learn their truths,
to see how you
hurt them
and how they hurt you,
to find the point of
convergence,
to find a point
of forgiveness.

So, I sacrifice
my small horizon of light
to descend into
the pits of night,
to sip sorrow’s
poisonous brew.
Cause even though
you need to
I know you wont
face what deceives you.
That shiny ****
that pleases you
also blocks the truth.

So, I walk into
that which will
disintegrate me,
to set you free.

It is the dark that makes us appreciate the light, cold that makes us appreciate warmth, moistness that makes us appreciate dryness, and sadness which makes us appreciate happiness. That is one of the many reason I love stories that do not have a happy ending.

Her soul is on fire,
the heat from it taking me higher,
soaring on a demons breath,
taste on my lips, the kiss of death,
reaching forth she takes my hand,
leading me to a foreign land,
through the shrouds of darkened bliss,
wraps my spirit in an immortal kiss,
shields me with an apocryphal embrace,
takes me to her resting place,
she feels, she see's, she knows,
the ancient wisdom of the crows,
binds me with a seal of tears,
keeping me safe through all the years.

Who are these people behind your pencil marks, why do some drawings look so much more detailed than others
Why didn't you draw his mouth
Why didn't you give her ears
Why do you take away their parts
What about it don't you want to draw
What about it don't you want to put on paper