#my wriring
almost (poem)
I love you.
Have I ever told you that?
Yeah, I do
and I know I sound crazy,
but, truth is I do love you
and I almost don’t feel guilty.
almost, almost, almost
the word that keeps us apart
In the end, we are almost art.
I don’t wanna be a burden,
so please keep me away
if you don’t really want to stay.
— something about him
enough (poem)
I am enough.
I keep repeating that I am enough
as if that was enough for me.
When I say I am enough
it’s because I can’t allow myself to love anyone else
but me.
— a poem by me on a midnight
The Falling Crimson Night - Lycorim - A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms [Archive of Our Own]
The high noon sun dapples upon the king through the foliage. Against the white fur of his cloak, against the golden sunlight and the browning autumn leaves, crimson is all Theon sees.
—–
Robb has grown his hair out. This is more significant to Theon than it probably should be.
The Invisible Box - jamenk - Supernatural [Archive of Our Own]
This image immediately reminded me of this fic.
“And now I am grieving for the loss of you,
I wonder if my mother grieved for my father in the same way.
Quietly and alone,
so the sorrow remains unknown.”
- no one can know the pain of losing a love that was always in the dark.
14.09.19
“I am the painful verses that snakes sing, I am the oppressed heart sobbing the pain of its loves, my words do not have flavour or but they feed the soul, the soul that understands all the incomprehensible, the corner that echoes rumours of nostalgia. Poetry is the dawn awake at night reciting poems to the darkness so it can dream. Poetry is the life we create in letters and sadness without mouth. I am the soul that is mature and keeps echoes of memories and dreams. I am the one whom death awaits at dawn.”
Train back home
Some days I feel like the sun. I feel bright and warm and nurturing. I feel like I can care for every person on earth just by letting myself be me for a while. I feel needed and happy and beautiful.
Some days I feel like the sun but it’s different. It’s dark. It’s lonely and I feel hated and persecuted and so so alone. Because while many all over cherish the sun for his beauty, other glare at it in scorn. No one looks at the sun, for it’s too bright. It’s so warm it’s painful. Those things it does best are hinderances. I understand it in the underlying words behind people’s strained smiles. “Too loud. Too warm. Too bright. What a pain it is to look at them, and why try, because looking would only wound me”
And people have gone blind from me. It should feel nice to hear those nice words that you’re not too much. But it only serves to show how I’ve shone too brightly. Because for every soft gesture of “you’re not too much” there’s millions more saying “shut up, you’re too careless, you’re too too much”
Everyone wishes they could be a star. Everyone looks at the stars with love and joy until it’s their own star, their own ball of gas that cares for them unfeeling. They always told me im otherworldly, and oh if this was true I’d be Sirius, or Orion, or Rigel. I don’t think it would matter much though, for every star has bodies too near it.
One day I’ll learn how to dim the sun. Learn how to make those things easier for other people. For now though, I simply await my moon. My moon who will find my warmth pleasing, my loudness endearing, my brightness just right to light up their day. Because for every person on this earth, there must be someone who can see me as I am.
I am the sun. And when I find my moon it’s over for the rest of you, and I will never have to dull my shine again.