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My warm embrace in your darkest days
Brought you comfort you never knew
But standing there while holding you close
I grew much colder, too.

Your grip grew strong, the walls caved in
Smothered, I started to squirm
But gazing in your pleading eyes
You leaned, and I stayed firm.  

Your edges are rough, through no fault of your own
But I am so, so soft
Shallow cuts can still run deep
My dear, you need to stop.

Your eloquent yet hollow words
Cloud my mind and senses
Empty oaths, a hamster wheel
I can’t beat your defenses.

My empathy has entrapped me
You’d never trust again
But I am worn, my eyes are dull
It’s not worth it in the end.

Our paths were meant to meet, not merge
You were nice to get to know
But please, I ask one thing of you
If you love me, let me go.
saint 5d
born into a family,
where resolve meant escape,
through silence or withdrawal.

the distance between love and pain,
a retreat from what we couldn’t face.

raised in the cold embrace of unspoken words,
where hearts were shields,
and love was buried beneath layers of pride.

they veiled their emotions,
masked in stoic faces,
refusing to show the ache that ran deep.

the flower they nurtured,
once bright, once tender,
pushed aside by their own selfishness and greed.

each petal lost to neglect,
each thorn sharp with their disregard.

the love they could not give
left a void where warmth should have been.

feelings, cold as ice,
the flower frosted over,
but inside, deep within its trembling heart,
it bore the weight of every feeling that they could never speak
and every tear they never shed.

within that fragile bloom,
i felt it all.
their anger, their sorrow,
their fear, their joy,
and the overwhelming silence
that drowned out any chance of peace.

i became the keeper of their unspoken words,
the one who felt everything they could not.
the weight of their unsaid love,
the burden of their unshared grief,
all carried in a heart too full,
too overwhelmed by emotion.

and though I learned to hold it all,
this tangled web of feelings,
i became a vessel,
overflowing,
caught between the unspoken coldness
and the warmth I longed to give.
emotional inheritance & generational silence | spend time with your family<3
alex Jul 9
Being an empath
is both a blessing
and a curse

First place
gold medal shine
this moment is mine
smiling ear to ear
but then I see her,
Second place,
quickly wipes her face
her parents think
she’s a disgrace
Did I destroy her dream?
We’re always the villain
in someone’s scene.

Sometimes I hate to feel
every dream
I steal
almost every day
as i walk the dogs
up the hill
two crows
wait for me
at the entrance
to the woods
they swoop low
cawing as they land
on the sign post
or sometimes simply
a matter of paces
ahead of me
hopeful
it would seem
that their display
of such bravery
is noticed and
perhaps rewarded

i couldn't help
but name them
and each time
they appear
talk to them
asking how
their day is going
while leaving
a handful
of dog kibble
as i walk on
to thank them
for their visit
in the hope
that their courage
my kindliness
time and persistence
might bring us
closer still
I am flawed, lost in the depths,
Since I heard the silence beneath their steps.
Their map is lean—lines, signs and names,
Not seeing beyond the truth they claim.

Through their shortcuts, they place me in a cage,
A simple outline, they miss the weight behind the stage-
What’s soft, unseen, warped by age,
With complexity they cannot engage.

This map of mine holds space, nuance, weight,
Unmarked roads and altered states,
It charts the shifts of inner skies,
The truths that flicker in disguised eyes.
It honours detours, dwells in pause,
And bends around unspoken laws.

They see it, flawed, lost, estranged,
Too raw, too complex, too unarranged.
But their neat world cannot gauge the cost,
Of all the knowing they’ve lost

Let them follow lines well-laid,
Their scripted paths in safe charade.
But don’t hold me to your labels and limits,
Drawn from shortcuts and fleeting minutes.

Let me be, let me fly,
To map my uncharted sky
Arna Jun 12
Hiding their talents, afraid someone might steal their light.
Valuing others' happiness, often at the cost of their own.
Caring for everyone — even those who curse them out of envy.
Neglecting their own health while nurturing others.
Spreading smiles, while burying their own pain deep inside.

These aren’t flaws...
They’re the quiet traits of strong, introverted girls —
Silent warriors with golden hearts.
"You may never hear her story out loud — but her actions speak volumes."
Hello Daisies Jun 10
Empathy in this world
Is what we need
Empathy is what we should breathe
I sit here at night
And i cry
I ask god why!?
Why?
People are fighting
For their rights,
yet they're being called
Evil and spies
Watching their families
Screaming goodbye
Yet the people watching the news
Screaming they're the bad few
They're the evil of the world..
Empathy needs to be cured.

It breaks my heart
And it should break yours
The state of this world
The state of the people
So much suffering
So much pain
But they only care about
All of their gain,
Billionaires
And fame

It's getting darker
more cruel
It's hard to ignore
But what can i do?
I'm one of the weak few
The disabled
The poor
A women
Crying at your door

What can i do?
What can any of us do?
Stand and scream
Have an epiphany
Fight for what's right
Burn the senate down
Take away his crown

But in reality
Will standing and screaming work?
Or will we all just go berserk?
Fighting for what's right,
While being told we're wrong
Til we're all gone..

But we belong!
We aren't doing wrong
We are the weak but also
The strong
We will stand
We will give a helping hand
It's all we can do,
To keep empathy around
empathy
something I struggle with
I'm not heartless
or lacking kindness
I just don't know how
to put myself in other's shoes
I can't see their pain
in their perspective
I see it my way
not theirs
it's a struggle
I want to be understanding
but I just can't
I wish I could be
more empathetic
but alas
I'm just a misunderstood fool
empathy: the ability to understand and share the feelings of another
matilde Jun 2
Man was not born perfect. Neither divine, nor beastly. But shaped from the mud of contradiction: a being who, at the same time, reaches for the light and falls into shadow.
Among mortals, there exists no creature entirely good, nor entirely corrupt: each walks a ridge, where every step may lean toward evil or good, without ever fully dwelling in either.

According to the bards of the South, it was Prometheus who molded the first human heart using tears stolen from Eléos, a minor and forgotten goddess, born from the Compassion that Nyx, the primordial Night, wept while watching the wars among her children.
Prometheus ignited that tear with the fire of thought, but he left man with a flaw: the heart could beat in tune with another’s pain, but it could also reject it, shut itself off, dry up.

When man wounds man, when he betrays, strikes, tramples, what awakens is the most ancient part of him: not the one shaped by Eléos, but the one carved by Nemesis, the goddess of retribution, twin sister of balance.

And yet, when the guilty fall, and the unjust suffer, the heart of the just one hesitates.
Thought whispers: “He deserved it.”

But this voice does not come from Eléos.
It comes from the blade, the one Nemesis sharpened with the envy of the living and the resentment of the dead.
A blade that cannot distinguish between the righteous and the vengeful, because whoever wields it, even briefly, loses sight of the heart.

Eléos, on the other hand, does not speak loudly. She whispers.
She reminds the heart of what the mind has forgotten: “He, too, was a child. He, too, was afraid. He, too, sought love.”

And then empathy appears, not as pity, but as a sacred discipline.
It is not an emotion. It is not weakness.
It is the ability to face the pain of the one who hurt you, and say: “I do not wish for him what he wished for me.”

And then you see.
You see the guilty one’s mother watching over his bed.
You see the father remembering a boy who once ran, now motionless.
You see friends who do not understand.
You see yourself, reflected in the face you once hated, and you realize the harm he caused was born from the same hunger for love that burns in you.

Eléos sits beside you, in silence.
She imposes nothing.
But if you listen, she teaches true compassion: the kind that knows how to weigh pain, even when it belongs to the enemy.

People invoke karma. They say: “It’s justice.” But it is not justice they seek. It is revenge.
And revenge is a knife held with a cold hand, but one that slowly burns the palm.

There is no compassion in those who cry for a dog but laugh at the outcast classmate.
There is no empathy in those who grieve for a lonely elder but despise a peer who cannot speak.

Empathy is a fire that only consumes pride.
It is the art of seeing the other not as a stranger, but as a missed version of oneself.

And forgiveness, then, is not forgetting, it is transformation.
It is saying: “You are not innocent, but you are human. And I choose to see you with the eyes I wish were used to see me.”

The myths say Eléos lives in the woods at the edge of Tartarus, where the spirits of the repentant wander in search of peace.
She does not punish them. She listens.
And when a soul learns to weep for what it has done, Eléos gives it a second skin: made of silence, memory, and light.

And you, if you wish to know her, do not call her.
Sit beside the pain you once hated, and listen to it.
Only then will she come.
And she will call you:
Daughter of Compassion.
Keeper of Forgiveness.
thought about this at 11 pm while laying in bed listening to Radiohead ****
ash Jun 1
i drew a few hearts on my bedding
when it was bare without any sheets
perhaps i shouldn't have — it's bad manners,
what you're taught as a toddler to preach in.
but then i wondered —
who would ever notice?
i'd like to mention, the art of noticing.

i went to fetch some groceries.
while returning, without my headphones,
i took notice — and the world seemed to hold me in.
a woman was talking to her husband,
chatting about how the war drills cancelled.
two brothers were playing cricket —
i passed them by and heard the younger say,
i'll learn to throw well in time if i grew bolder, yeah?
the older one smiled —
a smile i've done many times — and chuckled.

it's not always the best place to be,
the world i mean — when you wish to fit in.
i'm almost always with my earphones — wired or the other ones,
trying to fade it out: the noise, the surreality, almost all of it.
because it's just so hard to seek the peace i intend to live with.
but then, on a few random days where i feel like the chosen,
everything feels a bit better —
like it's not that bad to be broken?

they function, yes they do —
but i notice the way they lag,
and sometimes choose just not to
show who they are.
so they wear masks:
ones that hide, ones they despise,
and sometimes don’t even realize
until it’s too late — and the mask melts into their skin.

i feel bad sometimes —
this empathy just carries my soul,
brings it to absorb every ounce of pain i can
from the one beside, and the ones i cross.

but on other days like tonight,
i walk, almost free.
there’s good winds, myself carefree.
there’s a lot of work pending —
i won’t deny i’m procrastinating.
but for once i smile,
and i smile at the thought of myself smiling —
for no cause, probably seeming delusional
to the one in passing.

but how do i tell them the moon’s following,
and there’s the hint of wet mud after the evening shower —
the sensation filling up my blood —
and it’s nice for once, easy to exist,
almost easier to fit in.

my thoughts are like string lights,
almost always entangled together.
not one single shines bright —
but sometimes they glow,
like when i'm hit with a current of emotions.
they glow bright, almost enchanting —
and on nights i'm able to sort,
sort through the flickering ones,
the ones that died, and the ones that hold the right light,
i pour them out, let the candle-like wax from my brain transcribe
words and feelings into the right imagery,
hoping it'll make sense by the time i'm done with it.
and this right here is quite one of the examples
of same cord of fairy lights
(i'm to believe i might be magical in all my might).

but then i look around
and see the way they look in return —
and even though i stand out,
stand out in a way the odd one does
in the system of evens —
it’s not the best thing, not the flashiest.

but i continue to walk
with a silent acceptance.
maybe the world is like this.
sometimes i notice the good,
often the bad,
mostly the in-between.

and the greys are a nice position to be in
when the extremes have taken you and thrown you.
for not all magnets hold together —
the like ones just never really go well together.

we're all simply misfits —
and yet the word holds the fits.
so i guess in the end,
we all really do miss the irony of it.
i'll have to rethink, got another to write on and about.
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