Bettanu: Autumnbound

“When you can tell your story and it doesn’t make you cry, that’s when you know you’ve healed.”

— Unknown

poetry is a fundamental food group if you dont read a decent poem once or twice a month you get soul anemic bone tired and all that

“I’m the only one that’s allowed to touch you like this. Do you understand?”

🫠🫠🫠

Very beautiful ❤️

-Benedict Smith, I wish I wrote the way I thought

wondering…

I love this. We have nothing to prove to anyone but ourselves, and I do not give ear or care to post my happy moment portraits on Fakebook & pretend everything is always peachy.

All best.

Travel and tell no one. Live a true love story and tell no one. Live happily and tell no one. People ruin beautiful things.

Khalil Gibran

I instantly fell in love with Taylor Swift's song 'Anti-Hero.'

It is rare to find any new music with intelligent, quality lyrics, and it tells the story! Beautiful Poetry!

MIDNIGHTS – OCTOBER 21, 2022

It’s a momentary glimmer of distraction. The tiniest notion of reminiscent thought that wanders off into wondering, the spark that lights a tinderbox of fixation. And now it is irreversible. The flame has caught. You’re wide awake.

Maybe it’s that one urgent question you meant to ask someone years ago but didn’t. Someone that slipped through the cracks in your history, and they’re are too far gone now anyway. All the ghost ships that have sailed and sailed away, but at this hour, they’ve anchored in your harbor. They sit with flags waving, bright and beautiful. And it’s almost like it’s real.

We lie awake in love and in fear and in turmoll and in tears. We stare at walls and drink until they speak back. We twist in our self-made cages and pray that we aren’t — right this minute — about to make some fateful life-altering mistake. This is a collection of music written in the middle of the night, a journey through terrors and sweet dreams. The floors we pace and the demons we face. For all of us who have tossed and turned and decided to keep the lanterns lit and go searching. Hoping that just maybe, when the clock strikes twelve… we’ll meet ourselves.