#rawwriting
it’s not sad.
it’s not wrong.
but in 2026
you can scream
and still
not be understood
the way you should be.
you can stay
where there are no signs,
where the ***** wait for you in the harbor,
and still
be forgotten
in a moment.
we both know:
flowers arrive
when it’s too late
to feel them,
or even think, for a second,
“these are beautiful.”
the dice were thrown
with the wrong calculation.
and suddenly,
you become everything
you were never allowed to be
in their eyes.
don’t cry.
and I wonder —
who does it hurt more, between us?
you, the reader, beyond the screen,
or me,
the one who twists words
like knives in a wound?
only…
you’re not here anymore
to hear it.
or to see it.
so—
who am I talking to?
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 5:17 PM UTC
It’s funny how a single moment can unravel an entire night.
You see someone you once thought "maybe",
standing close to someone else—
laughing, softer than you’ve ever seen them,
existing in a version of reality
you were never invited into.
And suddenly, it’s not about them anymore.
It becomes about you.
About all the times you were "almost",
but never quite chosen.
About how easy it is for you
to become “safe,”
“understanding,”
“brother.”
About how you can read everyone so well,
yet fail to rewrite your own place
in their story.
This piece comes from that strange space
between clarity and collapse
where you understand everything logically,
but still feel something breaking quietly inside.
Where you can explain everyone’s behavior,
justify every situation,
and still sit with a heaviness
you can’t name.
Maybe it’s not rejection.
Maybe it’s the weight of always being the one
who adapts,
who gives,
who understands
but rarely the one
someone leans toward.
If you’ve ever walked away from a crowd
just to breathe,
just to hold yourself together,
just to make sense of why it hurts
when technically, nothing is wrong
this one is for you.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 3:39 AM UTC
the silence in my room was suffocating,
it smelled like mold and dust
as i took the blade out again.
it looked better than other days,
looking kinder than most things do
a happy promise,
wearing a halo of relief.
it felt comforting, knowing
all it takes is letting it meet my skin.
i got tired of saying this, but
just because my grief isn’t loud
doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
it sits quietly,
heavy on my chest,
the gut-wrenching pain,
the guilt of not crying out loud,
the guilt of not screaming.
so i held my breath
as i forgot,
i suppose, sometimes
i even fail to remember
what purpose oxygen serves in the human body.
my body was never a devoted follower
of the One above,
but my mind was.
was… but now…
it makes me a bit sad.
but isn’t history always a bit sad?
flaws are, after all,
virtues turned upside down.
i read once we tend to become
what we are called.
i am afraid
i could become nothing more
than a haunted memory.
funny, how i was never called
memorable or haunting.
keeping the blade aside, i walked out.
the world was too loud today.
i stood over the footbridge,
watching cars blur into nothing.
the wind carried a taste of fresh rain,
and for a moment,
it made me think
how the concrete never looked so soft before
soft enough
to rest.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 11:41 AM UTC
Birds plucking dirt out of my eyes—
this vision scavenged clean.
Inner angry voices circling overhead,
and ugly choices with hooked beaks.
I take the battle into my own hands,
knuckles twisted with truth and lies—
a courtroom built in my skull,
thinking through crime eyes.
There's a crime of passion—
where the heart gets stabbed first.
***** it—I rip the roof off my thoughts
just to see what leaks out.
Broken ceilings, exposed skies,
biting into life with a missing tooth—
survival looks feral, when you’re far
from home and even farther from love.
So vultures kneel on barren ground,
their shadows choking the soil
where no seed dares breathe.
But something violent is growing
in me—
...a rose forcing its way
through bone and dirt,
thorns clawing out of my eyes
to pinch my dreams, awake.
Exotic? Ironic?
No!
Just a body crying more hours
than it sleeps— starving in fields
where weeds grow faster than food.
Still; somewhere beyond this wasteland
there has to be a place where something
living can finally feed.
Mar 15
Mar 15, 2026 at 6:22 PM UTC
Today is the day of failure
a complete failure
doing everything to never be enough. Why is man never satisfied with his condition? Because man is constantly searching for unconditional happiness without any certainty of finding it. We're talking about certainties that don't exist. They're merely illusions that fuel our childhood lives, but when we realize this, it will be too late...
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 5:24 PM UTC
I’m only liquid for fears, drowning quietly in them, a slow flood
behind my ribs, no warning signs, no lifeguards in sight. You will be
a sunflower, but only as far as you choose to reach out for the sun,
bending your whole body toward light, even if the light burns, even
if the roots ache from pulling.
Happiness comes—eager, but never permanent— it’s a guest that
tracks mud on your floor, leaves its jacket behind; just to remind
you it was here, but gone before you could ask it to stay. The good
things in life never seem to last a lifetime, and going out into this
world feels like reaching for a lifeline, but all I catch is air—
_thin, trembling air._
Since birth you were beautiful, but survival forced you to wear the
ugliness of the world— stitched hand-me-down scars, fabric heavy
with someone else’s shame. Each day is a costume change that
doesn’t fit, but you wear it anyway, because naked truth doesn’t
pay rent.
We are all swelling with an opus of urban angst, the kind that hums
under flickering streetlights, the melodic slang of hoodlum teens
trading cigarettes for sentences, has become the hustle talk of men
trying to feed the same hunger that never grew up. Yearning to be
something. Yearning to be someone. Constellations made of shattered
glass windows, cracked stars on the concrete, chasing after the sun as
if the further we run, the closer it comes, but the horizon never owes
us an answer.
To love, to be loved— truth arrives dressed in lies at the start,
perfumed to disguise the rot. We impress, but we press too hard,
we call it romance but it’s theatre, and every stage ends in torn
curtains. This life is love, but love isn’t so full of life when it hangs
uneven, dangling off one side like a crooked frame.
_Luck isn’t justice._ Cause and effect rarely add up to cause what’s
fair.
And yet we paint our burning visions next to piss-splashed garbage
bins, turning dumpsters into backdrops, spray-painting scars into
murals that smell like waste, mistaking rage for art.
Scars deserve worth, not mockery. But too often, anger becomes our
brush, dipped in venom, flung at the wall, and the picture never
reaches far— _a masterpiece meant for healing drowned out by
noise_.
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 2:46 PM UTC
Do you crave attention?
Is that why you play the influencer—
not because you have something to give,
but because something is missing.
Applause.
Adoration.
Affection.
Love.
But you cannot fake influence,
you cannot pretend to be what you are not.
Makeup fades.
And at the end of the day,
when the mirror stares back,
you still hate yourself—
and everyone has already forgotten
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 11:24 AM UTC
Sé que si te veo,
vos me mirarías feo,
y me preguntarías:
¿Así de mierda me volví?
Yo te diría sí,
y lo siento mucho por ser así.
Está bien si me odias,
yo también me odio.
No pude cumplir tus sueños,
y ahora me he vuelto
una simple máquina
que solo reacciona
a lo que le sucede.
Pero dejó de pensar
en su bienestar
y en los lazos que tiene.
Le dio igual sus amistades,
y se quedó solo
pensando en lo académico.
Lo siento.
No soy la persona
que tú querías que fuera.
Me mirarías
y solo golpearías mi cabeza,
y sé que,
aunque estés pequeña,
tratarías de matarme.
Matar a un adolescente
que su alma está muerta,
y solo se volvió
un cadáver andante.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 11:27 PM UTC
Fear of failure eats me alive
Even if im not drowning
Feels like everyone is frowning
I don't know what they want
But I know I can't give it to them
I don't have what is takes
To bring them snowflakes
In the middle of june
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 4:49 PM UTC