Myself Is Crippling Me, Myself Is A Critic That Always It Has To Find A Negative Thing To Say About Me.
Myself is crippling me, myself is a critic that always it has to find a negative thing to say about me. Myself is fear and the purpose of me has always been to overcome it.
art by @kmcvisuals
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Meaning of words.
You said then
that
my love murders
you in a beautiful
way
and that you don't
think of an
existence without
it
so in that i
thought you
would go extinct
upon our failure.
But as time grows
all i have seen is a you
blooming.
Was it a lie ?
and my love
was totally a nothing
to you ?
please
please tell
me
and tell
the one
murdering you
now
not to highly think
of things for
all of it is
just a jumble of
words.
i rarely re-read but always keep them at heart,the journey they take me to.
Looks like it’s kindle time again and a reread too.
Well, what if I had predicted that it was you the whole time and I was replying to you and not your friend.
would it change anything mate.
all this post that you created is sign of power and good heart, a sign of somebody trying to care about how they make others feel mate and I want to assure you that not many people are like you, if truly it's you. you have a unique heart in a world where everyone is minding their own gain
You are unique
You are special and
You should stand tall knowing that you harbor a unique heart and reasoning.
guys
what does it mean if you hurt someone
and
you don’t feel anything
…
asking for a friend
…
she was a puppy wrapped in wolf skin. And it took me ages to see— but when I did, I never let go.
my gentle hands, my tender hold, learning her softness beneath the wild.
I once heard stories that God saves the cursed, but in this case, I’m sure I am the cursed. And all I need now is His hand to lift this curse of life, this darkness, this weight that I carry alone.
To just do it,
even when the thoughts
form a barricade.
Some bloomed in the same loneliness
that mutilated others.
And they blamed God for the atrocities they inflicted on themselves, human to human.
They asked why He looked on as they dismantled each other.
They couldn't even use right the thing they bragged about: free will.
"God, intervene" - their excuses are their acceptances that they can't be without You.
After all, writing isn’t the whole damn world. Fuck this writer’s block.
I’ll walk around, watch Béla Tarr or Andrei. I’ll call Joyce she never runs out of words.
Or I’ll sleep it off, because I refuse to let a blank page make me consider the unthinkable.
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