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sɪɴᴄᴇ: ᴀᴘʀɪʟ-16-2019 ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴅᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ᴀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ, ᴇʀᴀsᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʀᴀɪɴʙᴏᴡ? ɪᴛ's ᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀɪɴ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ғᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴀɪɴ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇs ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ sᴛᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs? ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ: @Euphoricalbot
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1 563
You have all these people around you friends, families…. but you have nobody at the same time If this doesn’t make sense to you… ur a lucky one 🍀
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I walked down the street,
roaming around the lamps and the beautiful view.
I walked a long way, yet I haven’t found a path I could reflect on.
I was deep in my thoughts,
consumed with overthinking.
A chaos had formed in my head, but my face looks empty.
Damn, why aren’t my emotions visible?
I look like a psychopath in the making, or maybe a complete one.
I have fears, but I am the feared one.
They have no idea I’m fighting with sounds pushing my peace out.
I put the peace sign like I have one, but it isn’t around.
“Why are you always smiling?” they ask out loud.
I scream and laugh in their face, but it’s just a sound.
I’m crying for help, yet the silence is unheard.
“How am I happy while carrying this sadness?” I’ll ask God.
My faith in Him will turn the chaos into something sound.
Maybe…
I’m not in full faith; maybe that’s why my sanity is playing insanely in the background.
What you see in front isn’t actually all of me; I’m acting with all my might,
acting strong like I’m tough now.
-Wʜᴏ?
@Euphoristicc
1 563
Repost from EUPHORIA
"Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, / bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. / Sometimes, the men - they come with keys, / and sometimes, the men they come with hammers."
Warsan Shire, from "The House," Her Blue Body
@Euphoristicc
1 563
Nothing But Death Poem by Pablo Neruda
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere,
from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead,
with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels
, and pensive young girls
married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it,
like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks,
using a ring with no stone in it,
with no finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth,
with no tongue, with no throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter.
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Death is inside the
folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
@Euphoristicc
