Backyard

Ahh I'd like to say sorry first am just too lazy and dumb to notice I got 300 subs and one of ma friend told me its been a month when this channel gained 300 subs soo yeah copy paste that text by Mitch Thanks everyone for everything and yeah one peice is real always remember that..... So long..... Actually is this a dead channel or just audience is slow like me?

well, first of all a big thanks for 301! it’s me, mitch, this side. and sorry for all those above text, she just ran from an asylum. anyways, this was really an awesome journey for me, a lot of ups and downs, lost some subscribers and gained a lot in exchange. every single one of you who decided to join my channel means a lot to me. i also wanna give a big shoutout to those fellow channel owners and creators who stood by me, reposted my posts or forwarded it. ig, without this community, i wouldn’t have reached here. ik i’m not that great at expressing myself, but trust me when i say this i’m genuinely happy and proud of what we achieved together. 301 might look like just a number to some, but to me, it’s a proof that i’m not alone in this. you all are like a family to me, and this milestone belongs to each one of us. so yeah, from the bottom of my heart, thank you again!! hope we make it 1k some day!!

That day, I saw a raindrop clinging to a leaf, and then slipping away— falling.

~Rain~ Rain taps gently— each falling drop composing a nameless tune that tickles in my ear. The scent of wet earth awakens a quiet hunger— I long to taste the sand, raw and alive. Not long ago, I felt heavy, my heart swollen with dark clouds. Now, I lean by the window, watching the lake drink slowly, watching the trees sway. They are alive. And somehow, so am I. #poetry

The Illiterate Poet He carves verses on peeling walls with fingers that never held a pen— each line a blister, each pause a scar. The city walks by, fluent in silence, blind to the grammar of pain. They say he's mad. But madness is just poetry spelled without permission. He doesn’t write in ink— he writes in dust and time, and sometimes, blood when the bricks bite back. So next time you pass a crumbling wall, read it slowly. It might be screaming something you forgot how to feel. — master...

Once I cried in front of a cloud and it rained somewhere else. That’s when I knew: God reads my texts, but leaves them on “seen.”

Reserved Seat Close enough to breathe the silence she left behind, too far to touch the sky she carried in her hair. She sat like a verse I dared not read aloud, a morning light falling through tinted glass, while I— I was the window fogged with breath, never cleared enough to show the truth. She didn’t know. And I couldn’t tell. So I watched as the wind tangled her hair like a prayer I never had the courage to whisper. Each station passed like a missed moment— a flicker in the reel of what-ifs. The train moves. So does she. But I stay— a story paused between two stops where nothing began, and nothing ended. Just the quiet hum of everything I didn’t say. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— master.... ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA train story ~

So do us.

Thorns were never cruel— they were just tired of being touched.

The sky bleeds blue to hide the bruises of God. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— master...

If life is a soup, I’m the spoon that screams when it touches the broth.