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It’s not something
to fret nor worry about!
It’s just a phase
and a play of the world you're acting in.
Acceptance is the great solution—
Bear it for now!
Just as night surrenders to day
& it arises
Sorrow will go away
& joy will bloom like roses ~~

Aromatically
&
beautifully
&
magnetically.

I love you
Bear it !
my day has come
the peak of my life
it feels like peace
and euphoria

i love myself
ive fallen in love
im never lonely
alone or not
I pray for her safety,
The world is scary.
I pray for her happiness,
She deserves joy.
I pray for her,
That not even a hair will bother her.
I wish I could be there always
Thea 4d
Why is it that sorrow paints the most vivid pictures?
That agony sculpts statues from cold marble, chiseling grief into perfection,
while joy slips through my fingers like water,
unable to hold its form long enough to be carved into eternity?

I have seen novels woven from suffering,
each word a bruise pressed into the page,
and I have sung along to symphonies of heartbreak,
where violins wail in a language older than time.
Yet, when I am happy, truly happy,
the words dissolve before they reach the paper,
the melody hums itself into silence.

Perhaps misery lingers because it demands to be known.
It stains the mind like ink, like red wine on white linen,
a blot that will not be scrubbed away.
Joy is light, ephemeral—a sunbeam through a cracked window,
and when it leaves, it does so without a trace.

Is it that in darkness we see light most clearly?
That when we fall into the abyss,
we can finally measure the sky’s distance?
Or is it simply that suffering forces us inward,
makes us historians of our own wounds,
and from that catalog of aches, we shape something immortal?

I wonder if humanity was made to remember pain,
if at our core we are creatures of longing,
forever chasing ghosts of what we lost,
of what we never even had.
If we were made for joy, we would hold onto it,
bottle it, sing it into permanence.
But joy fades, and grief carves.
One is water, the other is stone.

And so I wonder—
what does that make us?
First poem after being in a slump
Let me know what you think
FormlessMars Mar 24
"What are you thinking about?" they ask.

"Nothing." I say.

Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.

But nothing has a name,
 and it curls on my tongue like a prayer I am too afraid to speak.

Nothing is the weight pressing against my ribs,
 the static behind my eyes,


the hands I reach for in dreams only to wake up clawing at the empty sheets.

Nothing is the hum in my bones when the world goes quiet.


The shadow behind my every thought.


The ghost in my periphery that never fades.

I carry her like a sickness with no fever.


Like a hunger that will not break.


Like a whisper that loops and loops and loops


until I cannot tell where she ends and I begin.

And still, they ask me—
"What are you thinking about?"

And still, I say—
"Nothing."

But what they do not understand,
 what they will never understand,
 is that Nothing is constant.


Nothing is endless.

Nothing is mine,

but not yet.

Not yet.

God, not yet.

And it is unbearable.

Because Nothing is in my bloodstream.


Nothing is in my lungs.


Nothing is the pulse behind my teeth
 when I bite down too hard trying to keep her from spilling out.

Nothing is the way my words slip sideways,
breaking, bending, coming undone in all the wrong places.

Nothing is the reason I lose track of time,


the reason my thoughts tangle,


the reason I can stand in a crowded room and still feel


alone.

I could scream.

I could tear my own mind apart just to carve her out of it,
 but I know I would only find more of her buried beneath.

So I wait.

I wait.

I sit in the silence and let Nothing fill me.


I live in the space between now and someday,


where she is not yet mine,
 but will be.

And when they ask me again—


"What are you thinking about?"

I will smile.


And I will lie.

"Nothing."
Nothing more, nothing less.
FormlessMars Mar 22
I can be anyone you want,  
darling,  

I can shift, I can bend,

I can—  

I can break.

Oh, I can break.  

But right now—

right now—

right now I need to be your lover.  

Not a stranger,

not a shadow,

not a

MAYBE ONE DAY…

I need to be the breath in your lungs,

the static under your skin,

the ache in your bones when you wake up too fast and swear you felt me there.  

I was…

But time is a cruel, slow god  
and patience is a cage with rusted bars
  
and I

I

I

am losing myself inside it.  

I can see it.

I can see

US

Not in fragments, not in fleeting dreams,

not in—
  
SOMEDAY

But in a life with walls and windows and hands that don’t let go.

In a world where waiting is over and we don’t bleed for time anymore.

Where I am yours without a clock between us.  

But not yet…

NOT YET

Not yet, so I stay.
Not yet, so I hold.  
Not yet, so I swallow

the madness and let it simmer in my gut

until it kills me from the inside out.  

I do not know how to be patient when the future already belongs to me.

I do not know how to be sane when you exist in a time I cannot touch.

I do not know how to be whole when half of me is waiting for you.  

My hands shake when I write your name.
  
My thoughts slip like loose threads,
  
unraveling,

twisting,

spelling things backwards—

See?

Se?

Ees?

But they all mean the same thing.  

I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you

and you are not even mine yet.

Yet.  

Yet.  

YET..

I can be anyone you want, darling,  
I can wait, I can hold, I can burn,  
I can wear patience like a noose and call it devotion,

I can

I can

I can

BUT IT HURTS…

God, it hurts.  

But you are worth every second
For you
Caio Gomes Mar 19
Uma sensação de leveza,
de extensão breve e duradoura.

Um arrepio percorre a nuca,
permeia o corpo,
e transborda em um arrepio.

Por uma melodia ou poesia
que ataca e rebate,
tocando a alma,
comovente
emoção elevadora.

Sensação infinita na infinidade.

Oh, se ao menos sempre tivesse sido,
para permanecer aqui, sempre.

Deleite e bem-aventurança, alegria e prazer,
emoção no olhar lacrimoso do coração,
alegria no sorriso da mente.

Se ao menos pudesse permanecer, sempre...
Prazer.
Escrevi este poema inspirado pela sensação de ouvir uma determinada música.
NoHayPila Mar 17
I need you like twilight needs the stars,
like weary hands crave a gentle touch.
The world is softer with you in it—
its edges ease, its air turns warm,
the weight of longing lifted in my ribs.

I close my eyes and reach for you,
and though miles stretch between us,
I find the trace of your presence still—
cologne and cigarettes,
smoke curling soft in memory,
a scent that whispers, I am near.

If I could pull you through the distance,
fold the hours between my hands,
I would rest my head against your shoulder,
breathe you in until the ache fades.
But even now, love lingers in the quiet,
a steady pulse, a tether unbroken.

You are not gone, only waiting—
your laughter still echoes,
your warmth still lingers,
and your name, when spoken,
is not a wish, not a prayer—
but a promise that love remains.
silvervi Mar 17
Even the smallest warm interaction with other people counts.
And it has a ripple effect if we let it 💗
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