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#writingthroughit
Sorry it wasn’t my intention to sadden you with this letter, even though sadness is the only thing it seems able to give. But I must do what I must, so all of you can live for the better. So forgive me, my loves, my dear children. For I am a mother by name, but obviously nothing more, and that saddens me because it saddens you. I’m suffocating, but not because of you. No. It’s because of me. I’ve been breathing in toxic air, listening to the voices of the ton, until I no longer have a voice of my own. So, my loves, my hearts, I’m leaving. For I myself am going crazy. My mood changes faster than my wardrobe, and my tears flow faster than a waterfall. I’ve betrayed you. I’ve wronged you. You may not forgive me, but I plead. For I can’t be what you need, nor what you expect. My loves, my diamonds, my stars— you are strong and wise. So please forgive this selfish mother of yours as she runs instead of depending, out of fear and foolishness. To: My dear sons
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Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 2:02 PM UTC
Intentions
I have no choice but to take accountability For my actions For my verbiage For the way I dealt with the woman of my dreams The woman that engulfed everything I prayed for For my part in it, I ****** up Now I’m paying for it Had nothing to do with greener grass It was hurt, betrayal, lies and movement For now, I’m watching you from the crowd Eventually, me knowing me and you I’ll no longer come to see you play And that’s what hurts the most now The thought of everything fading No longer being approached Everything just a memory If only we could go back in time and really fight for it
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Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 3:05 AM UTC
If Only
Tomorrow’s eyes watch me — but _I am blind_ until it arrives. To cease to exist feels like a ceasefire in time, where I burn away inspiration on the fumes of an energy drink. Notebook scribbles doing their best to _unknot all my thoughts_ — tangled passions poured out in pen. This art… it’s love in its messiest form. Beneath every star, there’s a space between us — these stained brown eyes aching for more time, more ink, more breath to write out the seconds before they disappear. The pen, a formless weapon — shaping silence into meaning, turning pressure into prayer, forming _words to be_.
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Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
The Scribbled Prayer
_A creative reflex_ — Writing as a way to reflect While breaking in between myself — This is me, _finding a recess_. And if kidding around is for kids, Maybe some parts of me haven’t really grown up yet. Still, if I’m set — Placing a quiet bet On all these dreams I haven’t cashed in yet — I hold the right To keep searching for my best. Because being better than the me from yesterday Might be all I’ve got left… And maybe, __that’s enough!__
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Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 5:14 PM UTC
In the Margin of Myself
I don’t have a license to drive anyone crazy — but I do have a mind that keeps itself driven. __Always on__. Dreams at any given. And I’ve felt the kind of love sickness that lingers too long — where obsession is the disease of craving for something that was never really yours to begin with. Envy stays green, growing tall like something proud. But even weeds grow healthy, and we still call them plants, _right_? I’ve been tied to other people’s hopes — roped in by their strong faith. "_And I still try to believe._" But saying that out loud feels like lying to my own mouth. So I daydream in the interest of peace, trying not to wake the ghouls I’ve tucked under my thoughts. I’ve had people toss my advice like a smooth stone in their hand; pretending it’s weightless, like their hands aren’t made of sand — like shallowness could ever carry any real depth. _But it just echoes the sea_. I always notice the ones who aren’t really seen. __The unread__... The Blue and Grey ticks. While others get their messages read and ignored, I’m just the message never opened. Still _typing_, still _thinking_ of the right words. I’ve come to represent the depressed, the lost, the young — the ones really trying to figure this **** out. __Pause__ yourself if you need to cuss, but I swear it’s not a curse to feel like **** sometimes. It just means in that moment, you’re not feeling so clean. Not broken — _just not fitting the costume_. Sometimes you just need one reason — __just one__ — to feel like yourself again. Not a version of you tailored to fit in. And that’s why it suits me better not to force anything. So yeah, I wear shorts to church — because life is too short, and I don’t see the point in dressing up pain to make it feel prettier. Especially when it’s always some casual man speaking formal hopes, trying to iron your sadness into something presentable. As if comfort should only come with a collar. But I’m not here for that. I’m just here trying to feel real — and maybe make peace with the parts of me that still feel unseen.
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Jul 3, 2025
Jul 3, 2025 at 6:47 PM UTC
Not Clean, Just Human
I don’t have a license to drive anyone crazy — but I do have a mind that keeps itself driven. __Always on__. Dreams at any given. And I’ve felt the kind of love sickness that lingers too long — where obsession is the disease of craving for something that was never really yours to begin with. Envy stays green, growing tall like something proud. But even weeds grow healthy, and we still call them plants, _right_? I’ve been tied to other people’s hopes — roped in by their strong faith. "_And I still try to believe._" But saying that out loud feels like lying to my own mouth. So I daydream in the interest of peace, trying not to wake the ghouls I’ve tucked under my thoughts. I’ve had people toss my advice like a smooth stone in their hand; pretending it’s weightless, like their hands aren’t made of sand — like shallowness could ever carry any real depth. _But it just echoes the sea_. I always notice the ones who aren’t really seen. __The unread__... The Blue and Grey ticks. While others get their messages read and ignored, I’m just the message never opened. Still _typing_, still _thinking_ of the right words. I’ve come to represent the depressed, the lost, the young — the ones really trying to figure this **** out. __Pause__ yourself if you need to cuss, but I swear it’s not a curse to feel like **** sometimes. It just means in that moment, you’re not feeling so clean. Not broken — _just not fitting the costume_. Sometimes you just need one reason — __just one__ — to feel like yourself again. Not a version of you tailored to fit in. And that’s why it suits me better not to force anything. So yeah, I wear shorts to church — because life is too short, and I don’t see the point in dressing up pain to make it feel prettier. Especially when it’s always some casual man speaking formal hopes, trying to iron your sadness into something presentable. As if comfort should only come with a collar. But I’m not here for that. I’m just here trying to feel real — and maybe make peace with the parts of me that still feel unseen.
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The silence between us is deafening — A chasm carved by all we left unsaid. Each word we swallowed lingers, A ghost that haunts the empty space. I hear your absence in the quiet. The stillness hums with what was once ours — Laughter tangled in whispered promises, Love unspoken but deeply known. But now, I only hear the questions. Do you miss the way my voice Filled the silence like sunlight? Do your thoughts wander back to me When the night grows too long? I reach for words that might mend, But none can bridge the distance. So I sit with the silence, And try to understand what it’s telling me.
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Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 7:13 PM UTC
The Silence Between Us
I look in the mirror and see someone softer— Not weaker, But worn in a way love tends to leave behind. There was a time I loved blindly, Loudly, Without asking if the ground could hold me. I called it strength, But it was fear Wearing confidence like perfume. Now, I measure my footsteps. I pause before giving too much. I speak, not to be heard— But to be honest. You wouldn’t recognize the way I love now. Not because it’s gone, But because it’s grown quiet, Rooted deeper, No longer searching for permission to bloom. I am still learning. Still unlearning. Still loving. But I am not the same. And maybe— That’s what healing really is.
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Apr 20, 2025
Apr 20, 2025 at 9:06 PM UTC
Echos of Who I Was