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my extremities are bound to your mahogany desk - what seems to be your working space. for the first time they are rendered purposeless, just drifting in your current like a priceless tonic. heavy torrents out there but i can't hear them. i know no amount of downpour can water down the sinful scarlet we caught ourselves into. we're about to roam wild and free tonight, where only my mind could reach.

so you commanded me to be on all fours, leaving gaps between my lips:
"spit...
spit out poetry and banters into my mouth.
spit...
spit out bitter truth that is hard for the night to bear.
i'm all ears, but im not sure if my heart can take it."

with you, i become my own libertine.
Mira 4d
how terrible it is
to be a writer

write! they say
write and the time will come

but how must one
compete to the top

when the shelves are filled with
"NYC Bestseller"?

oh how miserable it is
to be a writer

and they say
write! it isn't difficult!
sigh, writing really is a struggle
alex Jul 22
Writers die young,
but those loved
by a writer
live forever —
through scrappy handwriting
on yellowing pages
of verse and prose
full of adoration,
unconditional love
from an old soul
with a heart too big
for their own good.
Thomas Castle May 14
anxiety strikes me like a sudden glucose spike. bloodstream is gushed with nothing but the thrill of a chase. the nerves though, not doing so well. my reality is going to be more distorted than usual.

when anxiety strikes, they don't knock on the door. they come with a bang, and hang in the air like an acoustic foam. you know, train of thoughts and stream of sounds can wander anywhere in the room, but seem futile to get across time and space. they can only travel so much in here, in a vacuumless vessel. a deafening silence, a chaos in a stillness, and i think it best describes it. i can look composed and pour you a glass of water, and i won't even realize if it overflows.

when anxiety leaves, i don't think you know it left. you would question its existence, why isn't it with you today.  it might feel like a weight being lifted up on your shoulder, but you don't feel any lighter. it feels heavier because of its disappearance. you are so used to its presence, because anxiety keeps you busy in your head. and when you finally have a moment of peace, you self-doubt yourself if you have stopped living your life.
written @17:44, 27th Feb
Zhanara Mar 29
My smile is a just mask to hide my pain
My smiles is a just beautiful emotion to ignore the sadness.
30.03.2025
Archer Mar 23
The Duality of Man,
may very well be
The Singularity of Man.
Zhanara Mar 5
If you respect me
I will take you the MOON.
If you disrespect me.
I will hate myself,
06.03.2025
my eyes do not follow muscle memory the way my head sinks into your arms. soon sunrise will be the first witness to your departure, leaving the silk aching in the cold. i wake with all the familiar feelings at once - alone again, as clockwork resets itself.

so you told me to count sheep in my head, on my count:
"count...
count how many sleepless sighs we have exhaled in a week.
count...
count how many sleepy mornings we have taken for granted.
when you are taking count,
have we made it count?"
Grey Feb 28
"Ill do that" she said

She was so always eager to please

But then quick to anger

"No worries I'll fix it"
She always said

In return she got a warm smile

"I'll babysit for the coming years"she said

"I'll be a listening ear" she said

"What do you need help with " she said

"Have you eaten " she said

"You sick we need a doctor" she said

Then her cup got empty

She couldn't pour anymore

Yet she felt guilty that
she couldn't give,

That she blamed them for it

Her path became thorny

In return she tortured herself

Became her worst nightmare

And then she met him

He promised her love beyond this realm

That she was the purest soul he has met

What she was,still is ,is a torture device designed specifically for her

She should be validated

And he would make her understand that

He became he refill

A therapist she could divulge her secrets to

But she forgot he was human

She forgot her touch was sinister

She tainted him too

And he threw that to her face

And she couldn't blame him,or them  for that

Because there is always more to the story

She might be her author

But what she paints,what she writes

Would never be the full story

Because even she alternates between being a victim in her story

But what stays more constant is she must be the villian in this story
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