Somedays like today, the world
looks tremendously vast,
And I miss human chaos,
There is nothing much to fill spaces.
Empty rooms feel less comforting.
Somedays I want to stand with the crowd
And watch existence
See stories of people I'll never name.
But they must have seen a movie I liked ,
And truly hated it,
But that's okay.
my aesthetic is being mundane, call that mediocore
“You are here. I am alone in this poem.”
— Alex Dimitrov, from “You Were Blond Once,” Together and By Ourselves (via lifeinpoetry)
when hands touch
I pray ,
somewhere between the folds of some pages,
someone wrote what I feel,
the yearning , the coldness , the grief,
I hope there is an explanation.
_@ineluctablehere
I don't know what was up when I wrote " Everyday something in us dies, then we hope to find it. Our entire life we search for things that died"
I don't know what was up when I wrote "You can be witness of generosity that will accept more take than give because not one side of the coin makes it of value, of currency" but Holy shite.
mystery of love - dramatic violin version
"We are not searching for big things. We are searching for a silence devoid of grief."
@ineluctablehere
A little something for our cold hearts
August is when I find flowers under the carcass
For July was just nearly a dream,
And like all dreams, it didn't last forever.
But August is a promise,
It's to tell my mind I'm real.
My year has nearly just begun.
The greatest wonders of the world, are the breathing beings, not the monuments for the dead. -@ineluctable---- Poetry-Words
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