Why do I feel like I do not belong when I know I do
Why do I feel low when all I ever dreamt is of sky
Why do I why do I why do I

Can you hold my hand and end my despair
Can you tell me what I deserve when I clearly don’t understand

I’m a mess sinking down in all of this distress
Nowhere to go no one to call I came so far away searching for my happiness gone
Show me some mercy for I can’t catch a break
For every love I got turned out fake
For every soul I saved, I’ve not been repaid

Why do I feel like I deserve it all when I know I don’t
Why do I feel controlled when all I ever dreamt is to be uncontrolled
Why do I why do I why do I

Can you show me the way out of my misery
Can you find me the peace which I am not able to

I’m a chaos finding an order for which only lord knows might be my agony
Having a brainstorm I find myself in a collapse
I got no one to blame for I know I’m my worst enemy

Here I stand with my sorrow with my aching
Hoping for a way out, looking for an end of it

I have a room inside me that never learns to stay lit –
the bulbs hum like old refrigerators, tired and polite.
It is not only sadness; it is the slow settling of stone,
the placing of a palm on a wound I cannot name.

My smile is a borrowed coin pressed into the mouth of a beggar,
metal cool and unfamiliar. I practice saying fine –
the syllables are tidy, a drawer snapped shut against the dark.
Talking feels like choosing which limb to cut off first.

Mornings arrive like tax bills: inevitable and cruel.
I open my eyes and the world is a ledger of small violences –
the sun a pale creditor, the coffee bitter and obedient.
Breathing is a job I clock in for and instantly forget why.

There is a weight that knows the map of my bones better than I do,
it presses where directions used to be, flattens neighborhoods of hope.
Pain has become a general ledger: no line item, only balance
always a number red and endless, always due.

Sometimes I imagine carving a window into that room –
letting a sliver of weather in to see if weather remembers me.
But the shutters are welded with sentences I did not finish,
and the key is small and lost in the pocket of some other life.

The worst is the geography of it: no sharp edge to point at,
no bruise with a date, no neat explanation for why the rain keeps staying.
Only the knowing that whatever I touch comes away colder,
and I learn, slowly, how to fold myself into an acceptable silence.

If I could name the hurt, I’d dress it in words and parade it out –
but language is thin clothing for a storm this old.
So I wrap myself in softer lies and hand them to strangers,
say I'm fine and watch them believe me because they want to.

Tonight, I will tread the house of my own chest and count the rooms
the kitchen where hunger goes to sleep, the attic of all the almosts,
the cellar where my laughter ferments into objects I no longer own.
I will not find an answer. I will find the weight again, patient and exact.

Existing has become empty, a hollow rhythm,
a clock with no hands.
The worst is not knowing where the wound begins,
only that it’s everywhere –
a bruise spread across my soul, aching without edges,
bleeding without proof.

It hurts,
always hurts,
and I cannot name it.
I only know
it never leaves.

©️ Dark Water Diaries

why is there a void in me when i am filled completely
why is there an emptiness when i can't take anything anymore
what am i lacking when there is nothing to aim for
why is there a missing piece when i don't see any jigsaw
what is holding me back when i have nothing to let go
why do i keep running when i know nothing to chase after
what is it that scares me when i am a sunken ship
what is it that i am longing for when i came short of everything i longed for
what do i care about when there is nothing to look after
where do i find serenity when everything is  a disaster
why is this silence so loud that it deafens me to know what i want

The song I sung has taken a turn ,
what once was evil, now had to burn .
With all the spirit and nature in guide ,
not all is ours, what we provide ,
to free the soul from burden of hell,
and nothing humane-WELL ! WELL! WELL!
The sight and motto to be the "GOOD",
still standing there ,where you once stood ?
Kept the people by your side ?
But nothing's left except that PRIDE .
Insane , how it worked on death ?
Body is freed and the soul at debt .
The chemtrails running white on blue,
has been once me ,now it's you .
Vibrating air and sleeky wind,
couldn't erase what has been sinned.

sometimes i wonder what it's like to be a washcloth.
once a washcloth has been greasy and worn out,
someone who appreciates its worth takes it out from the workshop,
rubs it clean
removes all the grime, the dirt, the grease, the impurity
soaks it in a tub full of soap and warm water
then laid out to enjoy the breeze
and embrace the warmth of the sun
to start fresh, to start anew, to feel brand new again.
a clean slate for the washcloth; a repetitive process until it has been worn out on its last string.

i wonder what it's like to be a washcloth.
to be able to wring out all the scars, the wounds, the wickedness
and start anew every time.

but i guess that's what makes us human.
all the battle scars will remain as a lesson,
all the wickedness situated upon us will always convey a message,
and all the pain will serve its reminder that there is a brighter tomorrow.

but sometimes,
i can't help but wonder
what it's like to be a washcloth.

If you ask me,
How are you doing?
I’ll smile,
Tuck the truth behind my teeth,
and say
“I’m fine.”
But if you pause,
look me in the eyes,
and ask again,
“No, how are you really doing?”
I might just tell you…
I’m tired
of living in a world where my worth
is measured in paychecks and productivity.
Where rest feels like guilt,
and ambition, a cage with velvet lining.
I am overwhelmed.
Buried in deadlines,
chasing dreams that leave blisters on my feet,
because I know what I want for my life
and I know it won’t come cheap.

Love?
I flinch at the thought.
Not because I haven’t loved,
but because I’ve inherited the heartbreak
of women who taught me to be cautious,
to hold back,
to never let it all in.
I keep my guard up
steel walls around a soft heart.
And truthfully?
I’m exhausted from the weight of my own armor.
But letting it down feels
too risky.
Too unsafe.
Sometimes,
I sit with the bitterness
of how much I give,
and how little I get in return.
And I wonder,
Is this what “hard work pays off” looks like?
I lie.
To others.
To myself.
I say I’m open,
say I’m healed,
say I’m ready
when love still terrifies me.
I’ve broken down this year
not once,
not twice,
but in silent nights
when nobody was watching.

And I hate that I question people’s motives,
not because I want to doubt them,
but because I have to.
Because trust is no longer my first language.
So yes…
You might ask, “How are you?”
And I’ll still smile.
Still nod.
Still say,
“I’m fine.”
Not because I am
But because,
honestly,
I don’t even know where to start.

you wish for someone to understand you
to be by your side
even if he does nothing
just stay there so you don't feel lonely
when world tears you apart
he breath the same air as you do
if he cant do something better
just stay there and do nothing
you always wish for someone
to be there for you with you
and when you find no one
you go on a hunt
to find that one
or you completely abandon yourself
and let devil take over you
either you go see other and heal other
or you see other and hurt other
for if you are a kind one
you will choose the right
or if you are a thorny one
you will lick ones wound
for you think
what happened with you was unfair
so neither you live in ease
neither you let them
you dont let go
and hold your void like
your breaths depends on it