Unchained~victoria Pettella

a little old piece 💘

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He, who wants to fight

and be frightened,

he, who wants to become

someone, followed by the sun

erased from mortality

and forgiven,

time has come,

may he gather all the light,

all the fire, the passion

that drag him all the way up

and behind that sadness

may he break the pressure

to find natural peace as treasure.

-t.f.s.

where can I find a lover? someone I can stare at the stars with, or have crazy discussions about literature til 1 am with? a boy who writes me love letters and reads me poetry with his head on my lap. someone to walk around museums with, and then tells me that my beauty doesn’t compare to statues or paintings. where do you get one? 

What it means to be needed.

" Love means searching for your comfort zone such as your skin, your hair, your voice, your hand. It means so much just like warmth has come down on greeting the earth. "

-t.f.s.

Silent thoughts.

Behind the sickness

I'd wish to drown

In your affection

I seek, I draw

the feeling

of death's birth,

a feeling like that

It never regrets.

You stole what I felt

Freedom could step

Into the unknown

Into the farewell,

It never became dark

But just lonely,

not enough.

—T.F.S.

Life's a book- people don't want to continue on the next page,cause they're not interested in it's content.

-source: #quotes.

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.

Part of me liked part of you

just because there was nobody

to like you like that too.

-t.f.s.

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.

“Do you think you can forgive?” my therapist asks me. I shrug. “I don’t see the point,” I say. 

-my poem