Lately I’ve been feeling so uninspired. Sobriety tends to do that to me. Whenever I am actually happy, I have writer’s block. It’s easier to write about dark stuff and right now, thankfully, I don’t have any of that.
The problem in writing every words you feel is that you think with your brain of the words you will put into sentence that will vice the feelings you had.
But on the other hand, its not the brain who feel sad, happy or mad. Thats why sometimes there's a misunderstanding and hard to explain on how you describe it.
Well, idk about you guys, but thats happen to me.
I write because I feel.
The day i stop
writing about you
is the day i stop
caring for you.
The day i finally stop
A pen is always better than a sword. All sort of feelings can be expressed in a single piece of paper. At times we doesn't want to express ourselves in front of anybody. In that situation nothing can be better than a pen and a diary to express ourselves.
Ella nunca entendió lo q el le ofrecía... No fue que no lo valorará... Por que hasta las plantas valoran el cariño que se les da... El le ofreció volverla la musa de inspiración en su historia... Y construirle un mundo mágico donde ella era la protagonista... Lo más importante.... El solo quería ser un escritor... Y q la tinta de inspiración fueran sus besos... Y el lienzo... Fuera su piel... Ella nunca entendió lo q significó para el...
I love writing in cursive, because it gets me back to the old, romantic times, when people wrote actual letters and sent them to the ones they loved. Cursive letters and a beautiful paper background reminds me of those times and keeps the spirit of good old romance alive.
I love having beautiful papers and I still write with ink pen, because only that way you can feel every word that you're writing on a paper. Only that way every single word inprints onto your heart and stays there forever, like a permanent tattoo.
Word by word, a paper becomes alive and starts breathig, and every single line of ink becomes its vein filled with inkblood. The person reading the paper gets to experience the who...
I often come across the question, Why do you write? When my pen is not writing, my mind is racing, but a mind racing does not always translate to ink bleeding on paper. My answer was simple, I write to escape the mundane. Writing makes me happy. I find writing poems expresses what normally would not be part of a serious conversation in real life. I need to write to overflow like a waterfall, a strong gush of cold water, mighty, falling from atop a mountain. You hear it cascading downwards with so much force it creates a reservoir of water strong enough to flow to become a river. Then sometimes I am not a waterfall, I am a shallow water of a babbling brook, dancing my way across tiny rocks an...
I head to a bar
And sip on some cognac.
I have always been this person
who finds erratic ways to cope up with the pain.
Who would know it better than you?
The first you saw me
Was In a lounge where our story rests
Rolling a couple of joints
And sipping on some beer.
But this time
It was different
I reeked of alcohol in a bar
That reeked of loneliness
And before the whiskey could hit me
Your memories did.
There is a table
On the extreme corner
Of this empty bar
Where I used to sit
And tell stories of heartbreaks
To the walls that listened
And at other times
Closed down on me.
Nostalgia comes and takes a seat
Next to mine
And slides a postcard...
A Future That Only I Can See.
I wanna become a writer and travel the whole world with my super proud parents.
We intended to create the “mindful message” with the lettrs one minute minimum.
Somethings in life are meant to be slower, and for that we created lettrs as the medium for the intentional. We hope you agree.
Decidí nuevamente mantenerme enfocada en escribir y seguir expresando este dolor que aún me acompaña.
Llevaba un buen tiempo de no quedarme dormida entre lágrimas y recuerdos de ese amor.
Los dedos de mis manos ya no me bastan para contar los meses sin saber de ella, sin verla, sin hablar. Ha sido difícil.
He tratado de ser fuerte pero hay días en que no me alcanzan las ganas, hoy es uno de esos días.
Aún siento en mi lo mucho que la extraño, lo mucho que aún la amo.
Hoy mis ganas se derrumban, siento venir esa avalancha de nuevo... no sé si pueda resistir una vez más.
El dolor me consume, pero ese amor no correspondido me mantiene en coma... está suspendido... aún respira... aún está....
It's a complete mayhem inside,
Which can't be fought.
You see those moist eyes,
Inside it's a river.
You look at me.
And I smile back.
I stare at your empty shoulder
Dying to cry my heart out in them,
But everything just flickers.
Knock in my mind.
"It's not easy, not even reality!
Just bury everything deeper!"
As I hear such whispers.
Now, it's a pile.
Pile of things drowning me down.
Even then I smile,
Thinking maybe someday,
I would fall into your arms.
You'll run out of tissues for my tears.
We'll sit with a cup of CHAI & say cheers!
I would hear you out with your deepest secrets.
I write because...
I can't help myself...
Vomiting words on paper
Leaves room for mistakes
Correction of errors
It is still so much easier
Than attempting eloquence
And always choking
On the right ones
I am the girl
who sits down each night
with her diary and her pen
to feel all that
is within her,
around her and
I see a different self
in those black splashes on white
I sometimes wonder
if it's not my muscle
but my soul
that writhes and writes
I am the girl
sitting alone under a cosmic night
and when you approach me
I'd smile and tell you
"I have my favorite company
by my side"
Words my mouth must have uttered
are known only to my journals
dreams that my naive eyes could see
are what only these pages can vision
decisions taken: regretted, useless or appreciated?
my diary can only spill
it's not just a therapy
it's another universe, I tell
By the day
Through when my eyes were sky
Not of bright sunshines but dusty storms, the one that spill a lonely cup of coffee, on an incomplete story of a half torn diary page.
Through when my voice was a dream
Not of redemption but a lifeless screech, the one under a shower thumping louder than life
Looks like you survived, on broken toes and lifeless feet
You survived, but I'm glad you didn't exist, you would have had to kill me, yet again.
Me permito dedicarte las líneas que hoy trazo a consecuencia de mi descuido, de mi sórdida memoria, de mi remota consistencia.
Quizás las palabras no sean las líneas figurativas más sutiles, quizás carezco de los sentimientos expuestos, de un calor interno que me facilite la expresión hablada, pero sí de algo he de estar seguro es de aquello que me provoca tu mirada que tras los cristales se ocultan y resplandecen en los momentos menos esperados; de aquella sonrisa que desborda la natural alegría presentada entre tus rojos labios.
De esa cálida piel de sublime textura, de caricias eternas que aún resuenan en mi cabello; por aquella fragancia que evoca tu recuerdo desde los íntimos rincones d...