Writers world

life is fucking beautiful, man!

Maybe it was in choosing someone who had seen every version of you and still wanted to be there when everything simmered down and was boring. Maybe it was in choosing someone who had choose you in the process of choosing themselves! # yemirok

It wasn’t just that he left...it was how he walked away carrying the version of her that believed people never lie with love...

I love you in shades of blue

All of a sudden I see your name somewhere and all I wanna do is scream at this world, hate everyone and everything. I want to rebel against waves of life I want to choke my heart I want to squeeze you out of my soul just so I could be normal again and not have that gutting feeling inside my heart. Oh love how cruel you are #J.z

Perhaps you could tell me lies just to keep my fire burning #a_desperate_soul

The kiss drowned my thought The pleasure blinded my sight The touch numbed the pain Hot blood coursing through my vien Not as toxic Just a way to forget and escape the reality thats hectic

You, dear one, are a beautiful canvas with a rotting soul. That is why you crave what you can not see. That is why you dig beyond your realm. And it is also why you have plasters taped on all your mirrors.

Out of Love ❤️📜 When the darkness arrive, and you are all alone. Turned into a couple. It's your time to reshape, the darkness is there for you. The streets are quiet and the noise is gone Ya feel a deep void in your brains, Ya want to fill that void. Instead of thinking deep and going beyond the dimensions. You open tick tock/ Instagram. Guess what will fill the void? People's thoughts, based on their own personal experience. You take all that nonsense and fill the void with it. Be it, negative garbage or positive things... But at the end of the day, it's you and the garbage you consumed, instead of shaping your own way. life is a continuous journey of learning and growth. None of us have it all figured out. Let your own experience give you, the answers... Not social media, for it, is just content.

"The Worst Kind of Shadows"  The worst kind of feelings  are the ones you can’t carve into stone,  can’t drown in the river,  or set aflame in the yard.  They linger—  like the ghost of a touch  on skin that no longer remembers warmth,  like a song half-remembered,  hummed wrong in the dark.  You wear them like a coat  stitched from unanswered questions,  each thread a *why* that knots itself tighter  with every breath.  And the cruelest part?  They don’t even rage.  They don’t scream, or break things,  or leave bruises you can point to and say:  *Here. This is where it hurts.*  No—  they just sit inside your ribs,  quiet as a stopped clock,  heavy as a closed door,  whispering:  *You can’t fix what was never yours to hold.* @chaosvil

Everyone's rushing somewhere. I’m just trying to remember where I lost myself.

"Time Heals" *What a lie,* a thief’s promise, soft as rot whispering *wait, just wait,* while the wound forgets how to close. There is no end, only the slow gnaw of absence, a clock with no hands, a sky with no dawn. Every breath is her name, every silence her echo. I am a ghost haunted by the living. Time does not heal it merely teaches the bones how to ache without breaking. (But oh, how they bend.) @chaosvill

Pain changes people, it makes them trust less, overthink more, & shut people out.

I thought about you last night but instead of crying or feeling upset there was this drizzle of peace that began to hit the surface of my soul I made it without you . . . I’m much happier here without you . . . @chaosvil

Some of us are carved from stone, not flesh. Our hearts are not beating things but hollow caverns where love should reside—echoing, empty. We are the ones who stand at the edges of affection, watching others melt into each other like wax under a flame, while we remain cold, untouched. We try. Oh, how we try. We mimic the motions—hands held, lips pressed, whispered words that taste like rust on our tongues. We stitch ourselves into the shapes of lovers, but the threads unravel, always. There is something missing, something fundamental, like a god forgot to mold that part of us before setting us loose into the world. Perhaps we were never meant for love. Perhaps love is a language we were never taught, a song our throats cannot shape. We press our palms to chests, waiting for a spark that never comes. We tell ourselves: *Maybe this time. Maybe this one will be different.* But the truth is, some wounds are not wounds at all—they are absences. Some of us were born without the thing that makes love stick. And so we wander, half-people, ghosts in the lives of those who try to love us. We break them without meaning to. We leave fingerprints on their skin, not bruises, but the faintest marks of someone who was never really there. We do not love. We only pretend. And the tragedy is— we are almost convincing. And by some of us I meant me and you ofc.

I watched her galactic eyes, Drowning in a pool of watery tears, And with every passing moment, Her eyes kept screaming fear. As the flood continued to rise, Breathless, Immobilised, She let herself drown so deep, Ocean deep in her own mistakes. As she sunk, She has never remembered to breathe, And as she sunk, She has forgotten how to keep herself alive.

Of the best and the first, These words won't be. Of the sweet and the plump, These words won't be. A perfume, an incense, These words won't be. Capabel to appease, This words won't be. But, If not for you, These words wouldn't be. -Cain's offering-

Starve, my dear, On this love You claimed enough, And i will hold on Leaving Out what you need To keep you coming back. -it's not greed-