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Raguku telah kau hapus
Namun bungkammu sendiri yang membuatmu mampus
Tak terkesan serius
Mana kutahu kau mau berlabuh atau lanjut terus
Kamu kira aku jenius
Kau saja telah berhenti mengurus
Tiada perhatian, peduli, ataupun aplaus
Gelagatmu tandus
Payah kau, si rakus
Secuil sesal ini membius
Sayangnya tak ada rumus
Hanya bersisa putus
Ah sudah pupus
Tak mau lagi ku terjerumus
Kamu tetap jadi kultus
220519 | 2:54 AM | Kost's A
I can't sleep, feeling awful, incessantly listening to Sal Priadi's melancholist songs with tears running down my cheeck. I'm triggered again, my trauma. This is just how my body cope with a broken heart. Maybe it's just how my oxytocin levels fell down to the floor. I can't stop thinking why you put me in this unfair situation, hurts me, ypu playing victim, making a simple thing that can be fixed easily, massive. In instance you said I am the one who cause this relationship to end, without asking me why I did the thing I did. But yea, whatever, I believe God's way is for good future.
elle Dec 2018
She discriminates none, no story unread,
Tales of magic and creation and death,
Some inspire her with happiness, others with dread.

She reads Shakespeare's Macbeth,
Fairy tales from the brothers Grimm,
Luxurious stories stealing her breath.

When at last her mind is filled to the brim,
She takes up her pen,
And writes on a whim.

The words spill out, again and again,
She tries her hand at jokes,
A skilled comedienne.

She writes of a forest of oaks,
Waiting for the spring,
Shivering under their snowy cloaks.

She tells a tales of a king,
Of a child alone,
She writes of a bird with only one wing.

As the years fly by she sits on her throne,
Made up of hopes and dreams and words
The number of stories she’s written is unknown.

She says goodbye twice, then comes back for thirds,
Her body is worn, but her mind is sharp,
She lets go, and flies with the birds.

She swims with the carp,
She fights with the knights,
She listens to the ethereal sound of the harp.

Her spirit lives on, she soars to new heights.
Constantly busy,
Forever seeing the sights.
Louisa Coller Sep 2018
Scattered notes from the passive mind,
re-analysed with blissful anticipation,
searching for descriptive ways to be defined.

Imaginative pebble paths give me temptation,
luring my instincts in like a curious cat in the night,
a sinful soul hidden within a blooming carnation.

There are many ways to catch a spark through spite,
I refuse to abandon my kind, gentle morale,
to become a puppet amongst those who refuse to contrite.

When respecting the masterpieces - no matter how small,
fuel awarded amusements I begin to rope in,
leave me crawling but never let me fall.

Cheering, motivation, intelligence and motion,
satisfactions fills me when my eyes are open.
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