Unspoken - Blog Posts
Yes. Yes indeed.
Day 2710th of trying to be happy in your happiness
Day 2710 of failure
"The heart remembers what the mind tries to forget, especially in the quiet hours."
Astrum
Always and forever💫💜
Maybe i am always little late, but she is always there waiting. @the-soulwhispers 💜
And speaking the ancient tongue is like reaching out and having a chat with history itself, shadows and shimmers of unspoken words bound by time, now escaping through the curve of your lips.
It feels special when someone holds your hand when you are walking in the dark.It feels as if you are the luckiest person of the earth. Infact ,it is lucky to have someone beside you, for you and with you when you are grinding in the dark-)RB
sorrows inside
part 1/4 of mourning your reciprocation
the sun was shining brighter than ever at noon. this morning, my therapist told me to focus on the way it shines slim, curved lines of yellow on the pristine pebbles along the street as i walked back home. i was doing a good job at it, if you don’t count a few minor distractions like a swaying hyacinth and a snowy husky dog that served a pang to my head as a forceful reminder of how much you loved them. but i left it there. it should be there, and shouldn’t have travelled down, stuck at the base of my throat before sending a drastic fall. but it did, when i crawled on the crimson bench alone against the white walls of a shelter that i was supposed to spend dreamlike moments in with you. but it did, tugging a tumultuous crash to my aching heart. my heart pulsed once. badump. medicinal chemicals overlapping hints of metallic blood filling my nostrils. twice. badump. cardboard boxes weighing on my hands nearly as heavy as my heart was, with no one to share. thrice. badump. fingers smearing red paints on this very bench that would definitely illicit disapproving sighs from you because red on white stands glaring to the eyes, and i might’ve considered changing it just to suit your tastes if you were here. but ifs are never realities. this reality takes shape in the day you met me again, with a foreign look, almost a sick politeness in place of that affection you once held in your eyes, preserved for only me when it was just us two.
after that fated meeting, i indulged in my overwhelming moods a little. i painted this bench red when i decided on dedicating it to be all that my bleeding heart is, for it shows off shades of uneven reds, wounded with imperfections and lonesome against the white walls of our dreams behind my back. still, by allowing constant turns of my head, i’ve been associating you with everything around me. it’s an act that should be forbidden if i want you and i to truly move on. then again, if isn’t this reality. i want to feel sorry for myself, this time, for being unable to make that if into a reality.
the shade casts a looming sorrow on my hunched figure: your heart is obliviously white to an incomplete crimson that is mine.
All the romance. All the dreams. All the love. we thought to give but never did, at some point fades away and we are left to settle with anything that works. In the end its only what we never wanted to become, to have, to reflect that we cheer with.
I guess sometimes the punishment feels much better than sharing the burning desires.
Blood Wedding, Federico GarcÃa Lorca
Clay
Sometimes, if I like you
I'll let you mold a part of me or, thin out my walls
Sometimes, I feel young, energetic and naïve
But sometimes the weather forecast, forecasts colder weather
And I start to feel a little lethargic,
A little tired,
Maybe a little cracked
And trapped in this mold
Sometimes I grow harder, colder and more fragile
And sometimes my eyes seem to have a glazed coating
Because there are some tools out there
However tools don't get under my skin
If anything they get under my nails
I've got ribs and knives
So don't mess with me
Sometimes I'm as closed off as a clam,
With a secret,
Hidden pearl
Obviously I'm pretty imperfect
And I've become tired of finding a reason for
Being bent out of shape and having sharp edges
Edgy is my style
Because this is art
And anything ugly should not be held against the piece
And sometimes I have to let it go
Or just let it slip
Out of the grogginess of my tired head
Even if it leaves a shattered mess on the floor
Destruction is an art too
Like how angry painters have been known to throw paint at canvases
Fire me up
And I hope I won’t explode
With the unspoken air in my lungs
Sha la la la la la
My oh myÂ
Looks like the boy's too-
What? WHAT ARE YOU JARED?Â
Why won't you KISS THE GIRL???
