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Resilient you may see me as,
Strong-willed and invulnerable so,
Playful with a contagious exuberance.
A candid and amiable soul!

Yet this seamless veil of self-harmony
Covers more than a breakdown that's healed,
Covers more than a little disarray within me,
Covers cracks that run deep.

Cracks on my mental and my soul,
Cracks that have turned into ravines,
Cracks that I can partially withhold,
Cracks that have changed things within.

I’ve stared into mirrors that wouldn't reflect,
Watched pieces of me refuse to return.
Felt joy turn ghostlike, distant and wrecked,
While my soul smoldered — too numb to burn.

A fragmented soul I am indeed,
With a resilience quite-rough-built, though,
All mended with the unending beat
Of the heart of my soul, Hope!
Body's heavy-rock
Mind's scattered all over
Bring me inner peace
- David Cunha
june 26, 2025
9:28 p.m.
Viseu, will be working all night
I don't
feel anything
at all,
but I feel
it all
at once.
The brokenness,
the misery,
the weariness,
and the shame
are like
being
drenched in silt,
caked in filth,
covered with
life's crud.
I reek
of the living river—
its currents
have carried me
into a sea
of everything.
Now,
I find myself
adrift
in an ocean
of everything
and nothing.
For when you're drowning in everything and still feel nothing. A piece about emotional overload, numbness, and the silent weight of it all.
abyss 4d
Stuck in a crossroad
always in the middle of these **** roads
Where do I go?
Which road do I choose?
Does it even lead anywhere?
Do either have a dead end?
Stuck in a crossroad —
or multiple crossroads
Identity, morality, existence
Love, pain, hope
I pick my path —
Another crossroad
A little depressed, a little existential dread, a little hopeful, a lot of everything.
"Real?"
"Sure, why not?"

No
purpose.
Just
stillness.

(presence...)

Drowning in it with you —
no air,
no need,
no expectations.
Just there.

Some questions
don’t
need
answers.

(just presence...)
Some moments don’t need meaning — just presence.
Damocles Jun 20
Grey clouds crack open, weeping angels,
rain cascades, a liquid broom
washing earth's filth and sin.
The smell? Enigmatic—spring's embodiment,
summer evening's bold scent.
Drops like strings, smacking,
a hundred clapping hands under a faucet.
The wind keeps pace, whooshing,
shaking excess from leaves.
Tires glide on wet slick,
cars pass like crashing waves.

Peaceful, serene, innocent, refreshing.
Cold strings, exploding like macro water grenades,
rejuvenate skin.
A wonder to stare at, always.
Whether three, experiencing first cognizance,
or thirty-one, marveling.
Rain, a majestic measure of universal peace
in a world of chaos and noise.
Chaotic itself, like a jazz band drumming,
wind wailing past windows—
yet so serene.

Still, rain brings annoyance.
Bones ache, joints lock and creak,
and a youthful strut turns rusty tin-man waltz.
But its mysticism deafens pain
and frees the mind to fly.
Clarity, a rare enigma,
tickles skin raises arm hairs,
kisses lips with reality,
appearing ****, flirting with prismatic curves—
often ignored, and unnoticed.
Euphoria is splendidly remiss.

So easy to catalog memories,
reflect in life's mirror,
and determine what needs changing.
Everything changes with time.

Life, a garden.
We inherit seeds of knowledge,
plant interesting parts.
Love and sadness water, shine on plants
bearing flowers we call friends:
tulips, lilacs, dangerous roses.
Unique: blue, orange, red, white, pink.
Some sweet, some foul.
Each one is unique.
Flowers grow wild and wilt on vines.
Some aren't flowers, but weeds,
diseasing what they touch, like death.
Covered in insects, eroding beauty.
As a gardener, you decide:
anarchic disarray?
Or grab shears, and prune ugliness.
Friends who matter won't let your soul wilt.
Yes, rainfall brings such clarity.

But clarity's bubbles are superficial.
Easily burst, window closing, smog reconfiguring.
A bowling ball rolls across the sky and strikes pins—
a lucky strike.
Tree branches of light shoots extend,
lasts a second, and seems slower.
Adrenaline rushes, heart pounds like a drum.
Seconds pass, another strike, another flash.
A storm had come...
and it would pass.
This is a reworking of a short 1-page story I did (more like an essay really) on rain and what it means to me. I don't know if it's taboo to post prose/stories here or else I'd share the story. This is pretty much a 1-to-1 conversion best I could write it.
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