“i Found Your Soul Between The Lines Of My Poetry, Except It Wasn’t You It Was A Mistaken Creation”

“And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in.”

— Jane Austen

Singing Nightmare.

nightmare is a singer

singing in the dark as

there is a following cry

in the corner of my own.

sirens appear as

hallucinations of deep fear,

crying is not gonna save us,

trap is going to break us,

no one is here to take us.

the fear we are waiting for

is near...

so closer,i can feel the cold air

making goosebumps on my skin,

telling me to prepare

no time for deadly stories,

fear soon is coming,

screams aren't helping

they only break the ceiling

wishes in this planet

don't come true,

death is all for you,

all for you,

don't waste it

don't taste it,

don't regret it,

hear it...nightmare comes,

it comes for you to

sing you a song.

Feelings.

Tired or not, who cares?

Sad or happy, who stays?

Harder to be sad sometimes

is like harder to be happy,

who else sees the other picture of me

trying to be someone else to chase?

In order to complete, we run in chaos

giving it a try to full ourselves,

happy isn't a gift, nor sad to be

we deserve to live

just like places in us

deserve to be free.

-t.f.s.

You say your name is heavy

Like an anchor that sinks into the ocean bed?

Like a warm wool coat that shields from the icy wind?

Like honey’s viscosity or cream’s thickness?

Like a suitcase full of first-edition brilliance?

You shake your head: No. Heavy, like…

a sack of drenched grains.

I laugh. Your self-deprecation

is the height of ludicrousness

You smile, tucking

the curls behind my ear;

What comes to mind

when you think of my name?

My turn to smile;

your name stretches my lips

as easily as a lily bursting open in bloom

Your name is the collection

of gossamer threads wrapped

around my brain

the comfort of cashmere

the light of an incandescent

glittering reflections of sun on water

the billowing of a scarf

in the soothing zephyr

keeping my attention

in apt rapture

Like a marble I roll between my fingers

your name is the ball set rolling

down the lane angled to strike down

every single pin of my stoicism

Life is a line you shouldn't cross when you're downwards. As if in matter of fact you've already given up. It's not your fault for being who you are,it's your fault for not seeing the best part of it because YOU make it the best. When sun rises,you go down and think otherwise "what else is left for me now?" And when moon rises, your inner self just rises with night too. You create sudden conversations with yourself seeing the case of the problem that's gotten into your soul and it's making your skin tremble nervously. When your thoughts play chess and don't give up on hitting you, your dreams seem to be a broken mirror. But they aren't because it's an illusion. Your mind develop your self-mirror in which everything is illusion but one is real- yourself. You're alive with heart still beating. Don't give up to have another beginning. Don't waste time for useless thoughts. Don't give reason for illusion to eat you up.

-t.f.s.

Circle of substances.

Body being accumulated

shot in a deadly dream

songs are playing in grave

Words filled with blood

whisper to my universe

myths i couldn't hear,

Like an acid in my body

the whole world destroys me,

it eats me and never swallow

chewing me like a gum

to welcome nightmares

at my mind's door.

It happened again,

one night,million times,

they enter infinity.

Those cut wrists,

lips swollen

death is coming

to a near end.

"End is

beginning,

beginning is

the end."

-Voices repeat.

-t.f.s.

“I can’t change where I come from or what I’ve been through, so why should I be ashamed of what makes me, me?”

— Angie Thomas, The Hate U Give

Omg yus

A,

I was walking in the hallway with a friend of mine, he used the be verb “a” and the word “love” in that particular order. I protested. And said, love is not “a”. It’s not a single thing, it’s not even a thing!  It’s an explosion of feelings, unending questions and a rush of everything in split seconds. I told him, and he retorted saying I am a linguist.  But no, it wasn’t about words, it was about feeling every sensation. But you know what is the best explanation of love? It is YOU. Your love is the heat of the Sun on my skin, the rust of coldness when you eat Ice Cream; the explosion of excitement when you jump off a cliff. You yourself is love.

- 1919

The winter sun in tow behind you,

teeth bared at the wind,

you are autumn’s last ember.

Never would I yearn for summer

in the presence of your lunar smile.

Amidst the city’s electric hum,

I sing only of you,

November,

of the frost that numbs my bones.

Never would I retreat inside

and forsake the glory of autumn’s end.