Amazing. Better Give This Guy Some Hearts.

" I'd balance your body

Like holding a guitar,

And I'd gently play on strings

Just like I gently caress your skin. "

-t.f.s.

Increasing

Soft spots in forgiveness,

Love runs in between the ashes.

That's where we're meant to be,

completely unpredictable,

playing chess for free.

-t.f.s.

Ние сме живи , душата ми трепти

домът е близо , виждам светлини

които водят до стотици звезди ,

аз и ти сме частици от вселената

а дори и не го знаем , не сме способни

защото сме просто бучка пръст ,

пръст която ще съживи дворци, други души ,

ще обиколи всички звезди , всички облаци

за да върне онова което ни принадлежи - вселената , нашият дом , завинаги .

Trauma. Horrific catastrophe

of disease fullfiling my body

as I tremble and can't wake up.

My body can't take exhausting

desire to take medication- numbness.

Do I want it or do I need it?

It's something my soul continues to overthink.

-just a chaos made by t.f.s.

I know.

I know that when I try to take my pain, It's temporary feeling and It still hurts like a thousand times of breaking. My breath leaves my body and It won't let me think properly. It's taking too long to go back to my stable mode. It just burns my whole skin like sun, and gravity is no needed in my head,it just throws my oxygen away. But I need that oxygen. I need that life like I need the homemade bread in the morning, the sweetness...it's taking me back where I used to have a comfort zone. And happiness- just me running down the garden with flowers in a sunny day,having a place to seat on and watch the smiley sky.

And I need that..that patience that takes too much time on my self-improvement,because I still am not blooming yet. I'm trying..I'm learning to stay alive.

-t.f.s.

Poet is a storm.

I am writing in directions hoping to find the answer,

losing myself in a spiral of unworthiness,

my crazy mind recreated loneliness.

I needed to release the chaos with word,

moulding them into power coming

through a heart of glass that's glowing.

Formed a shape that only words

could come through a mind,

shaving the mud from my arms

to distract the miserable feeling

that caught me off guard.

I myself am not the best writer,

but if my poetry was made of gold,

If my soul burns in fire (motivation),

then i'm proud to be a storm.

-t.f.s.

Senryū VIII

I watch the world burn

through a shattered glass beneath

darkest depths of fears .

-t.f.s.

Senryū XII

It hurts the most when

you get through it all and , still ,

you are a gray zone .

-t.f.s.

MYSTIC LAND- UNIVERSE'S EYE.

somewhere where the world is not boundless,

where the universe is a mystic land,

someone's presence knows every thread of it,

observes every movement of human existence,

and clings to its essence slowly,imperceptibly

with one goal-to take place and destroy its target.

eyes of rage and deep fear watch the Earth in its perfection.

Nibiru is disappearing,

the era of darkness is near,

new evil forces are waking up and circling

the galaxies to take what's theirs.

it's disguisting influence swallows and eats away

at the dark circle of eternity,drinking life to the

last drop.

the soaring shapeless body coming from

the heavens makes it's vengeful dance,

closes the space and regains its power

over the planet..

..and it will be back for more,

hiding behind Saturn's ring,

wrapping around every planet,

life time is running out fast,

the sun is fading,

everyone is dying.

-t.f.s.

“When we lose certain people, or when we are dispossessed from a place, or a community, we may simply feel that we are undergoing something temporary, that mourning will be over and some restoration of prior order will be achieved. But maybe when we undergo what we do, something about who we are is revealed, something that delineates the ties we have to others, that shows us that these ties constitute what we are, ties or bonds that compose us. It is not as if an “I” exists independently over here and then simply loses a “you” over there, especially if the attachment to “you” is part of what composes who “I” am. If I lose you, under these conditions, then I not only mourn the loss, but I become inscrutable to myself. Who “am” I, without you?”

— Judith Butler, Precarious Life