I know that your sad
I know that your tired
of all the *******
that you have to deal with
and I know that its basic
but is this the only way?
to take yourself to a place,
where nobody comes back from?
hopefully you don't go
because I would like to meet you.
in life not after
because there might not be an after
maybe you have no reason to live
please allow me to give you one
Live for me
and I'll live for you

How could I live?
How
Could I be?

When you’re so far
And I’m alone,
When you’re not there
For me

To call

Home,

To guide me
By
My
Hand?

To tell me who the
Hell I am,

And where
I
Should stand?

Leave me
Here to go,
To go bone dry,

And run away
From
A million eyes.

Run your hands back
Through my blood

And tell me,
Really,
That

You’re not gone.

It is proven that we are all made of stars.
Not just one but multiple.
We were once tiny little particles that grew under pressure,
And shined bright for millions of years.
That was until we were released into the universe,
For a new life to be led.
I believe the people we meet in this world,
Those we have an instant connection with,
Share a star with us.
We recognize them because we once spent millions of years with them.
Growing.
Changing.
Developing in the same pressure.
I believe that our soulmates are made up of the exact same stars as us.
The same elemental composition.
It is the reason we are so comfortable.
Why they feel like home.
It is the home we knew for millions of years.
The twin flame of our soul.

I like it at night,
Pacing through the house,
Just my thoughts and me,
Quiet like a mouse.

Cleaning up the messes,
Putting away the day,
Reflecting on each hour,
Resetting the sun’s play.

I light a candle or two,
Letting shadows softly dance,
The flickering glow reminds me
That darkness still has chance.

I sip water from my cup,
Feeling gratitude’s gentle weight,
Thankful for these silent hours
Before tomorrow awakes.

Sometimes I’ll play music,
Maybe I’ll softly sing,
This quiet time with the Universe,
Planning intentions I hope she’ll bring.

They say poets die young,
but we never got the chance to live.
They shut us up,
tore the pages
before we could even write them.

They said we felt too much.
Too soft.
Too loud.
Too weird.
So they called it weakness,
and they crushed it.

They didn’t wait for time to take us—
they killed us early
with silence,
with laughter,
with rules
we didn’t make.

They say poets die young.
No.
We were killed.