#deepemotions
I keep bad habits like broken clocks,
Tick-tocking through a mind that mocks.
Rewinding pain I never chose; a past that lingers and never goes.
My trauma dressed in Sunday’s best, still hides in corners of my chest. It whispers loud in silent rooms and plants dead flowers to see if they’ll bloom.
I light a match, then watch it die, forgetting how to even try. My coping’s sharp and out of tune; I feed my shadows by the moon.
I get stuck in my head for days, amazed of thoughts, a hollow haze. Each exit sign just leads me back to all the memories dressed in black.
I want to scream, but I just sigh…
Too tired to wonder why. The weight I carry is mine alone; a house of glass, a heart of stone.
And still, I rise, though not quite whole, patch-working seams around my soul.
But some days, God, I feel so low – a wilted thing that won’t let go. </3
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 1:09 PM UTC
There’s a place where silence shivers. Not from cold, but from the strain of something just beyond the veil that might be wonder, might be pain.
I stand there often… Breath held tight, one foot grounded, one in the air – afraid to fall, but more afraid of never knowing at all.
Curiosity is a wild wind that hums through bones and pulls at skin, whispering, “go on, just one more step.”
While fear says, “you won’t ever come back in.”
They wrestle in my hollow chest, these two I just cannot seem to tame; one drawn to light beyond the ridge, one burned before and still feels flames.
And yet, the fire is beautiful. It dances, even as it warns. I reached, though ashes cling to my hands; not brave, perhaps, just battle-worn.
To live is not to choose between the aching and the new, but to stand trembling in between.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 11:49 AM UTC
If Life Is A Drama
And God The Scenarist
If We Are Just Actors
And This World A Stage
Then After My Death
I Would Like To Ask God
The Lord
Do I deserve An Oscar ?
Coz His Script
Isn't Really Easy For Me To Go
With The Flow
But Anyway
I Manage To Live It Though
Yo
Untill This Life Ends In Peace
Bro .
- Nis ...
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 8:44 AM UTC
May I meet you someday like this,
may there be no rush of saying goodbye
may there be no fear of interruptions.
may all the emotions be poured out
and every nook and cranny of my heart be emptied.
may I hold no regrets within
may memories not haunt us later.
May I never tire of expressing myself
may I find contentment in listening to you
may there be no constraints of time
and may we be bound together as a single knot
you, time, and I.
May I grasp you and drift into a deep slumber
may there be no haste to wake up
may there be no fear of missing a moment
may I get melted on your embrace, and
meld into your wholeness
just as the soul merges with the Supreme Being
May there be no unfulfilled dreams like this
may there be realities that satisfy me.
Someday, may I meet you
just like this.
- ० -
Jun 4, 2025
Jun 4, 2025 at 10:17 PM UTC
I don’t wish to close my eyes
while you sleep.
I don’t wish for time to slip away
while you smile.
I wish to fall asleep by your side
if one day it rains.
I love your white essence,
and also your dark one.
I love when you give yourself in parts,
and also when you give yourself completely.
I love your tenderness,
and also your hardness.
A tiny body,
but a soul of greatness.
A dark past,
but a radiant present.
A deep toughness,
but an incomparable kindness.
A little shy,
but of immeasurable courage.
Mar 12, 2025
Mar 12, 2025 at 6:05 AM UTC
It's eating me up alive,
Or am I too rotten to be fed?
Alone, inside-out, my head—
Let me out of this horror fest.
Pictures became archives,
Of a repetitive, stagnant time.
Anger manifests itself—
Am I rotten enough yet?
A sharp pain in my chest;
I put on a smile instead.
Juices seeping out, blood-red—
Pages fill my medical files.
Is it supposed to be a crime?
I am my own target.
The old folks lied—
An apple couldn't keep me alive.
Words cut deeper than knives,
Wounds that fester in my mind.
Home to others, not myself—
Am I rotten enough yet?
Sep 3, 2024
Sep 3, 2024 at 10:13 AM UTC
The world is full of noise.
School, Home, Work;
we all know that the world is full of noise.
but sometimes, the near silent
-skitch, scratch-
of pencil lead against paper is the sound that you hear, instead of the scream that the poem it's creating represents.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC