Things don’t work like that. Things aren’t seen in eyes not yours. Things are not forced. Things are things and we know not who’s right or wrong until mistakes are made.
Am an empty lot anything can fill yet, am so full of nothingness for something to fit in. Am in a state of despondency that nobody can revive my forlornness, am greatly agitated with myself, thus get scared for you my love when you say that you love me.
art by @kmcvisuals
War has come. Where is my artillery? We have failed, drastically, to reach a truce with life. So now, let the war begin. I am not afraid.
He does, what he wants, when he wants, how he wants and the atheist won't accept it, that even in there factual existence He was always aware. God, does, what he wants, when he wants, how he wants Period
Hell will remain a fantasy until it becomes a reality.
There’s nothing to be pressured about.
The chance of dying without ever tasting what you crave is real, and alive, breathing down your neck.
And no amount of pressure will ever change that.
But it’s been hard to let them know that all I need now is not Lethargy, or Trazodone, or Sertraline.
I need a heart that can beat when mine is trembling, a face that can smile when mine is sad-locked, and a person who can accept that I am in a dangerous mood.
She was covered in flowers, blooms of every scent and hue. Yet, she was so alone— the kind of loneliness that could kill. Imagine tombstones, not of the forgotten, but of the murdered, adorned with flowers of all sorts. People had spoiled her with flowers.
A life-changing epiphany.
A complication.
A trepidation
that even in
the insurgents,
the ones with
bottles and bottles
of red pills,
the Mavericks.
Within them,
lies those
still
enslaved by
the very fruits of their rebellion.