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In our golden, dust-sized Existence-Time, we all travel like stowaways along blind tracks, walking our own soul-killing Odyssey; as if we already guessed in advance what our good mother gave birth to us for, struggling for life. Maybe then, even as half-groping blind children, it was good to believe to ourselves that there could be a purpose and value to the fact that we are still here, and that we want to be somewhere.

Like hidden shadows or sacred radiance, our secrets are either this way or that - but they will remain with us forever if we do not tell them to anyone; the comfort of fake smiles that intrude on a person may not really excite us anymore, since almost all of them are false, fake, or just tinsel. As if Reality, of which we are unconsciously part, like pieces of cells or microparticles, wanted to knock more and more frequently.

It would be nice to be filled with unearthly harmonies in the lap of the Universe in the hope of a fuller life; the peaks of rock-hearts have pierced the torn canvases of my soul a million times, and there was no one who could have promised to heal me. We have been stuck outside the gate of redeeming salvation for a long time, which was closed with seven padlocks. The soul, which has already received enough careless pain, nurtures cacti of solitudes alone, the memory preserves torn dreams.

Why do we constantly feel that our every move, our DNA instinct, and the physical blueprint of our genetics are full of doubt and hesitation, if we even dare to go through the stages of the life journeys we have begun, or walk in the sacred captivity of balmy sunsets on the beach, where the shore can only be filled with people with perfect bodies?! There is still a long way to go until we realize this, if only there were always someone standing by our side as a helping hand to show us the way through the swamp of confusion!
Farwa 14h
Purifying myself

Trying to be the best

Love is nowhere

Time feels like a mess

Clouds hiding the lights

Silver contrasts the dark

The moonlight strains the glass

The tears drop for a lost cause

Steam of white, fog her eyes

Blinding her from seeing the light

The world becomes a bland interest

That lies behind a strange interest

Brown orbs of her eyes

Become dry like nothing’s lies

The salt on her curved lips

Sipping the hot tea of hope and plea

Moonlight disappears behind a cloud

Leaving a grieving shell on the ground

The girl’s eyes widen with horror

As her hopes disappears from sorrows

The tremble in her system

The emptiness of absence

Heavy eyelids droop

Watching the moon brood

The dime of unknown beauty lies

Beneath the tree, besides the creeping pesticides

She longed for anyone's eyes

The hope crushing like silver lines

Her eyes burn yet again

The lies she told herself yet again

Even if she lost the silver lights

Of the only friend that lies way above all cries

Small sphere, shining in the sky
Emotions on paper.
Farwa 14h
Curls on your head
A dangerous combination of swirls and waves
It's as pretty as the sea when it meets the sprinkling rain
Trials of Heaven curve at the mention
Golden hour clock strikes
Wind in question forgets the way
Sun and clouds — only disloyal affair
Curls have a specific kind of disclaimer

A few heartbreakers' favorite locks to break
A lore no one can describe
All lords' favorite dismay
Skies look down
Wild wind breakdown
Thy beauty is a concept
No one can bear

The night sky has shame
Obscuring those locks from the day
Sun shameless as any male
Feasts on the beauty of May
Jealousy is the only trait

God's creation and nature's trepidation
Ancients' only divine infatuation
Either a god or a wretch
The possible beauty that can never be far-fetched
Wordless beauty
Worldwide dignity
Waves
I wanted to muse on curls and wavy hair because I find them absolutely beautiful.
I took a bite
out of the unexpected
I was starving
to let go
of my "should's"
just to see what's
on the other side
of your flavor











*And it was sooooooo
satiating
This present, gloomy, wretched Time rattles its iron keys; many seven-locked doors creak so that later they will finally close, because now even those who could once have been prophets or small-time heralds are sinking into the tower of silence. The materialistic spirit of the given era is driving more and more people into an unhappiness dubbed permanent. Because now there is only one law: to squeeze profit even from the poorest stratum.

The barriers have also been soaked in us, which we built primarily so that even those who once professed with loyalty: I love you, could not get to know us well. Your sleeping enemies are hovering around you, like the giggling hyena hordes, with whom you can no longer do anything, because they reappear again and again in the fabric of your life; Life, which does not wait to swim or frolic, sends you messages with reckless, lazy thrusts - but twists your full, barely attainable possibilities.

Everyone can only pretend to have this great hypocritical happiness, which has become the sole right and privilege of the minute-man on the outskirts of the tabloid media. The present is now increasingly vulture-like. It always gnaws at its prey bones and greasy slobbers at the expense of others. Hypocrites in robes increasingly submit to some difficult-to-understand rule, which others have imposed on their heads; after all, sluggish ignorance is perhaps still better than the weighty Sisyphusian knowledge.

We are also deceived by the curse of everyday life, by the sack of evil, from which penny-worth of good deeds rarely rattle or fall, and the truth grafted into honesty, which is spoken by mouths and lips but rarely understood, is an increasingly bitter, rotting fruit. Even reason is witnessing falsified eras, because the objective sources have all been lost or destroyed. Even the cold Reality is becoming more and more malleable, more flammable.
You constantly wander the path of angelic walks, as if you secretly suspect that a child's face is looking back at you from the crooked depths of mirrors, which seems to never age, yet you often think of it as an old man. The uncertain future is also an increasingly crippled ladder, because you lie to yourself when you think you can still fix or change anything.

The fever curve of your willful pride seems to be deliberately shot through in the morning by a stray arrow of conscious doubts; gurgling noises secretly terrify you, in case they might disturb you or harm you even more; the Present dissolves instantly, even if you are not willing to take care of it, apart from your skin that wants to peel, you still speak with broken Apocryphal signs, but only those who accept it completely and as a whole can understand it.

Halfway between swaying rows of walls, you are forced to stumble like the occasional drunkard, because you are afraid to know the one-essence; perhaps only the great Nirvana-nothing can await you with more complete loyalty, without giving itself away. Yet, in the rocky depths of your knowable soul, the eternal child who you have always been envelops itself in swirling silence! Memory and humility purr within you, perhaps only until you recognize the One-Beloved again, who will accompany you for a lifetime!
One day,
they’ll find the pages—
where I left them.

And maybe then,
someone will finally read me.
Line by line.
Wound by wound.

I don’t expect love.
Only eyes.
Only the quiet that follows
when someone realizes
I was just  trying to say something
all along.

I won’t need anything,
but to be remembered-
as someone who bled in ink,
and made it last.
I kept thinking you’d soften
if I stayed quiet enough,
if I showed you what gentleness and love looked like,
that you might try it on.

But you never changed.
You never even blinked.
And I kept bleeding
thinking it was part of love.

I wanted you to be better.
Not for me-
but for you.
But wanting didn’t make you kind.
It only made me blind.

You didn’t hurt me by accident.
That’s just how you are.
And I’ve spent too long
writing apologies in my own pain
for expecting more.

So I’ll stop pretending
there’s a softer version of you
waiting just around the corner,
just to make things a little easier.
I loved a ghost
stitched from soft words
and glances that meant nothing.
I touched a dream
and swore it had a pulse.
And now I grieve
not you-
but the person I thought you were.
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