Forwarded from Pages Of My Diary (The Stranger)
“The Smallest Something”
Some nights, I look up—
and the sky reminds me
how small I really am.
A single human
on a single rock
spinning around a star
that’s one among sextillion—
in a galaxy that’s one
among two trillion more.
We’re not even a footnote
in the universe’s autobiography.
And yet…
here I am—
losing sleep over a memory,
over a goodbye that still echoes,
over a silence that shouldn’t hurt,
but does.
What a strange paradox—
to be so insignificant
and still feel everything
so deeply.
But maybe
that’s the magic of being human.
We don’t need to be big
to hold something infinite inside.
We ache,
we dream,
we fall in love with moments
that the universe
will never even notice.
And still,
we write.
We write about stars
that may have died long ago,
and people
who may never return.
Maybe our pain isn’t pointless.
Maybe our joy isn’t small.
Maybe,
in a universe that runs on physics,
we are the accident of feeling—
and that’s not weakness.
That’s wonder.
So no,
I may not be much
in the grand scheme of galaxies.
But I am something.
The smallest something
that dares to love
in a world that forgets to feel.
And that—
in all its softness—
is kind of beautiful...
Some nights, I look up—
and the sky reminds me
how small I really am.
A single human
on a single rock
spinning around a star
that’s one among sextillion—
in a galaxy that’s one
among two trillion more.
We’re not even a footnote
in the universe’s autobiography.
And yet…
here I am—
losing sleep over a memory,
over a goodbye that still echoes,
over a silence that shouldn’t hurt,
but does.
What a strange paradox—
to be so insignificant
and still feel everything
so deeply.
But maybe
that’s the magic of being human.
We don’t need to be big
to hold something infinite inside.
We ache,
we dream,
we fall in love with moments
that the universe
will never even notice.
And still,
we write.
We write about stars
that may have died long ago,
and people
who may never return.
Maybe our pain isn’t pointless.
Maybe our joy isn’t small.
Maybe,
in a universe that runs on physics,
we are the accident of feeling—
and that’s not weakness.
That’s wonder.
So no,
I may not be much
in the grand scheme of galaxies.
But I am something.
The smallest something
that dares to love
in a world that forgets to feel.
And that—
in all its softness—
is kind of beautiful...
❤36👍3🔥3✍1
Forwarded from Elixir
❤40👍5✍1
Forwarded from The Accidental Poet
They ask me
why I write like this
as if I’ve swallowed
something I’ll never digest.
I tell them:
I do not craft poems.
I survive them.
Each verse is a wound
that decided to speak.
Each stanza
a bandage pretending to be art.
Don’t look for beauty here.
Look for the places
I buried myself
so no one else would have to.
why I write like this
as if I’ve swallowed
something I’ll never digest.
I tell them:
I do not craft poems.
I survive them.
Each verse is a wound
that decided to speak.
Each stanza
a bandage pretending to be art.
Don’t look for beauty here.
Look for the places
I buried myself
so no one else would have to.
❤50✍1❤🔥1
Forwarded from glittering garbage
Every time
I inadvertently draw people in
through miscalculated words,
I feel burdened—
like taking on weight
I never meant to bear.
Sustaining a connection
feels like drafting weight
on a soul resisting entropy.
I inadvertently draw people in
through miscalculated words,
I feel burdened—
like taking on weight
I never meant to bear.
Sustaining a connection
feels like drafting weight
on a soul resisting entropy.
❤20👍4💯3✍1🔥1
Forwarded from KosmicKritika
I am torn between this apprehension for every kind of love I once looked for
and my bravery for every scar I reaped at the cost of my faith.
Though I can never grow out of love, yet, it's the last thing I expect now, for every time it had been the first thing I willingly gave.
#toxic
#words
and my bravery for every scar I reaped at the cost of my faith.
Though I can never grow out of love, yet, it's the last thing I expect now, for every time it had been the first thing I willingly gave.
#toxic
#words
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Forwarded from The Essence of Love, English Poetry & Writing
She made a poet out of me.
Sure,
I spoke pretty words before
but they were light,
empty,
just echoes of things I’d heard.
Borrowed lines
from books and poems,
gathered phrases
with no weight of my own.
They sounded nice,
but they didn’t mean.
They didn’t ache.
They didn’t linger.
Then she came along.
And without even trying,
she shifted something in me.
She showed me
what it means
to shape a feeling
into a sentence.
How to hold a moment
between syllables,
how to let silence speak
between the lines.
Now,
when the words come,
they come slower,
deeper,
as if they know
they have someone to answer to.
Now they carry something real.
A little more truth.
A little more her.
A little more of the person
I am when I think of her.
She made a poet out of me
not by asking,
not by trying,
but simply
by being
someone worth writing for.
❤48❤🔥8👍4✍1
Forwarded from Sam Scribbles 🍉
And now our world drowns in anticipating red,
Red flowers, red hearts, red smiles...
Whilst those children drown in the red flowing from their veins,
Red tears, red flesh, red stained wails, for every second of the day,
And I cannot, in good conscience, sympathize with a world that allows that red.
I cannot celebrate your love when we cannot celebrate their life.
Not #random
#SammyScribble
Red flowers, red hearts, red smiles...
Whilst those children drown in the red flowing from their veins,
Red tears, red flesh, red stained wails, for every second of the day,
And I cannot, in good conscience, sympathize with a world that allows that red.
I cannot celebrate your love when we cannot celebrate their life.
Not #random
#SammyScribble
❤18👍6✍1😡1
Forwarded from Retrograde Dissociation
Beware the eloquent—
whose lips are a stream of glazed honey,
whose mind has long weighed you unworthy.
Beware the smiles,
and the eyes trained for society—
appealing to all,
allegiant to none.
A silent spectator.
When they speak a word,
nations cheer—
the same nations
the eloquent secretly abhors.
Heed where you stand.
The firm, unyielding ground of their affection
could well be
a dissecting table
for their insatiable curiosities.
whose lips are a stream of glazed honey,
whose mind has long weighed you unworthy.
Beware the smiles,
and the eyes trained for society—
appealing to all,
allegiant to none.
A silent spectator.
When they speak a word,
nations cheer—
the same nations
the eloquent secretly abhors.
Heed where you stand.
The firm, unyielding ground of their affection
could well be
a dissecting table
for their insatiable curiosities.
❤27👏3✍2👍1
Forwarded from Elsewhere
I stepped onto my own back,
believing it to be the terrain
of gloomy worlds I admire.
I am not crazy—
but I live in an overly sane world,
where prophecy is mistaken
for ignorance.
believing it to be the terrain
of gloomy worlds I admire.
I am not crazy—
but I live in an overly sane world,
where prophecy is mistaken
for ignorance.
❤16✍10🤔5🦄4👍1👏1
Forwarded from 《 Nyx Thinks 》
Stage of life.
I paint my lips crimson—
a smile stitched with invisible thread,
while the scar beneath my ribs hums
a melody only I can hear.
The stage is set with halogen lights,
so bright they bleach the shadows
where my grief curls like a sleeping child,
small, forgotten, but still breathing.
I pirouette in borrowed grace,
each step a sonnet, each glance a verse—
the audience sighs, mistaking
the tremor in my hands for passion,
not the aftershock of a wound
I refuse to name.
Oh, the art of vanishing in plain sight--
how the body becomes both
the blade and the sheath.
At curtain call, they throw roses,
their petals soft as apologies
I’ll never receive.
I bow low, lower,
until my spine becomes a question mark—
Is this enough? Will this ever be enough?
#poetry #nyxthinks
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Forwarded from The Accidental Poet
Who built this house of hurt?
I did.
Stone by stone,
hope by hope.
She only walked in.
Did not ask for throne or crown
yet I gave them,
begging her to stay
in a kingdom
she never wished to rule.
Was it betrayal?
Yes—
but not hers.
Mine,
for confusing attention
with affection,
mirage
with miracle.
I did.
Stone by stone,
hope by hope.
She only walked in.
Did not ask for throne or crown
yet I gave them,
begging her to stay
in a kingdom
she never wished to rule.
Was it betrayal?
Yes—
but not hers.
Mine,
for confusing attention
with affection,
mirage
with miracle.
❤72👍7👀6✍3🔥2😭2🤔1
Red on white, blood on hands,
But, if that blood was Greed's last breath,
Does it change the equation? Does it make his hands worthy
Of holding her kind black heart?
#random
#SammyScribble
But, if that blood was Greed's last breath,
Does it change the equation? Does it make his hands worthy
Of holding her kind black heart?
#random
#SammyScribble
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Forwarded from 《 Nyx Thinks 》
I am tired of metaphors.
I am tired of making my pain beautiful.
I want to scream in a language
that doesn’t sound like poetry.
I want to be ugly.
I want to be honest.
#scribble
I am tired of making my pain beautiful.
I want to scream in a language
that doesn’t sound like poetry.
I want to be ugly.
I want to be honest.
#scribble
❤91🔥13👏4✍3👍3💘3😢2
Forwarded from The Accidental Poet
I distance myself
not because I want to be forgotten,
but because I am tired
of proving
I am worth remembering.
not because I want to be forgotten,
but because I am tired
of proving
I am worth remembering.
❤156👍10💘6✍3👏1😢1
Announcement:❗️
"We have noticed that more than 90% of the submitted posts to the channel have become AI paraphrased posts. Some of them have even escaped our notice and passed the moderation. And since we only would like genuine write ups in our channel, we are thinking of closing off the submissions until further notice, until people stop letting the artificial intelligence feel and write in their stead.
Thank you,
The moderation team."
"We have noticed that more than 90% of the submitted posts to the channel have become AI paraphrased posts. Some of them have even escaped our notice and passed the moderation. And since we only would like genuine write ups in our channel, we are thinking of closing off the submissions until further notice, until people stop letting the artificial intelligence feel and write in their stead.
Thank you,
The moderation team."
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The Poet's Sanctuary pinned «Announcement:❗️ "We have noticed that more than 90% of the submitted posts to the channel have become AI paraphrased posts. Some of them have even escaped our notice and passed the moderation. And since we only would like genuine write ups in our channel…»