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  • branthan 1d

    you strip away all the dirty clothes
    run your fingers around the scars
    to remind yourself of what it
    feels to be alive
    what it means to survive.

    even the greatest destructions
    leave a little life behind,
    maybe that is why you feel
    a little something in your
    numb bones.

    nights collapses into some
    bare Bukowski lines
    they fall
    they shatter
    and it hurts,

    like the way a fine whiskey
    burns your body in
    the coldest night,
    when the right words struggle
    to fall out of your mouth to
    a half-burned page you
    don't know what to do with

    they get stuck behind a door
    you're too afraid to open.
    funny how things die
    in the unwritten words
    funny how you get drunk on
    this brokenness and fall in love
    with your solitude

    as if this loneliness is
    the drug you've been looking for
    as if it fixes that part of you
    that you don't know how to fix

    so you make love to some old feelings
    lit a cigar and stare at the skyline
    find poems in the mundane things
    lurking in the streets
    you write about everything except you
    then you keep all your feelings behind
    a closed door, too afraid to let
    them go wild in this scary world.


    @writernsnetwork @mirakee

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  • branthan 2d

    we are stuck in time,
    you and I,
    clinging onto the memories
    of all the places
    we used to belong.


    Sometimes we are way too tangled to move on...

    @writersnetwork

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  • branthan 4d

    Busy with a lot of things...sorry that I can't reply to your comments and read your posts...


    @writersnetwork

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  • branthan 1w

    autumn had plans for her
    to love her with all
    the colors of the
    fallen leaves.
    but she ran away with the winter
    a cold white kiss was all
    she ever wanted.

    No matter how hard you try, somethings aren't meant for you.

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  • branthan 1w

    What does writing mean to you?

    I'm still nowhere closer in finding a proper answer. Maybe I've been looking at the question wrong, trying to find that one answer and say "this is what I feel, this is what writing means to me". Maybe I'm still not mature enough to give you an answer. But at this very moment, writing means a million different things.

    Maybe it is about expressing all the deep emotions you always wanted to tell.
    Maybe it is a way to escape the troublesome reality.
    Maybe it is a way to create a new reality to feel the things you've lost.
    Maybe it is therapy.
    Maybe it is a way to share what you feel with the world.
    Maybe it is about the strange girl you met on the street.
    Maybe it is about the stories of all the strangers you've met.

    Faces and names are easy to forget but stories stay.

    This uncertainty is the best part, it gives you a lot of worlds to explore, trying to find an answer that can feed your hungry screams. Some nights, you just look at the ceiling as if it knows all the answers. As if an answer can make everything better. But this numbness you feel is collective insomnia of all the ones that look for answers at two in the morning.

    then you write

    maybe that's why everyone's a poet at two in the morning. when the world is silent and dreams fall asleep, you look for words to fill all the voids, trying to
    make sense of all the feelings that you drowned with colored pills.

    You write about everything, some make sense and some never do. You write about the way she talks about stars and the universe, how it all makes perfect sense to her even if the world never understands the insanity.

    "Sane love is not love", right?

    You write about how her smile and curls in her hair slowly blend with the sunset. Red, deep reds against the deep blues of an ocean. It is both terrifying and tranquil at the same time. Another day dies and you're one more day closer to death. May some endings are just new beginnings and some eulogies are love letters to the stars.

    You write about how she makes you feel, how every letter and words falls in the right place at the right time and even when it makes no sense, you'll realize not everything deserves an answer. Some voids are never meant to be filled with random things, even the emptiness makes a perfect art.

    You write about how every single atom in your body dancing to the same monotony and how terrifying it is to be alive. How giving up makes a lot of sense than fighting to survive. How even the colored pills cannot save you from the darkest nights. How you feel a little sad even in the happy endings, how you feel depressed without any reason. How you've been bullied, taken advantage of, being judged for who you are and a million more things...

    You write about how unfair the world is. You talk about ideologies, ways to make the world a better place, yet in the end, it never really matters. How the world is dying, how people get judged based on their religion, race, color, even the length of their clothes. You write about how irritating it is that we live in a world where the people don't even want to open their eyes and their mouth but to follow the leaders of old age.

    You write...

    You write because you want to. You write because it makes sense to you. You write because you hope that there is someone out there in the crowd who feels the same, who find it relatable, who has gone through the same dark path and still survived. You write because you want to feel like you belong somewhere, part of something that gives you hope even if its for a temporary moment.

    Maybe that is enough.

    Poetry has a million more meanings, so what poetry is and how to write a poem is something I cannot tell you. Maybe everyone's a poet, from William Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson to Atticus and Rupi Kaur. Even though I hate the one-liner cliches and "social media status" poems, there may be someone out there who found it relatable. Who am I to judge right? Maybe one day they will grow up and see the world through the eyes of Shakespeare, Frost, and Neruda, maybe they never will and I guess that is okay too. Not everyone can understand art in its pure form right? The world would have been a better place if that was possible.

    Someone has lived this life, lies down on the same space and looked at the same sky wondering about the same damn questions. Some managed to find the right words to tell the story and some never did. Maybe all of this is how I feel, maybe you feel it too. Maybe this story is mine, maybe this story is about some random stranger with no name or a face, maybe this story is yours. Does it really matter?


    What is writing means to you? What is your story?

    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

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  • branthan 1w

    perfect is too mundane she said.
    too monotonous.
    we try to put ourselves
    into these closed loops
    of definitions, making us
    prisoners of a golden age.

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  • branthan 1w

    With every sunset a day dies. Yet we wait for a new day, holding a lot of hope in the palm of our hands.

    New day new dreams ��

    @writersnetwork

    Instagram.com/despaleo

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  • branthan 1w

    some poems aren't
    meant for the world.
    so you keep them
    in the empty space
    between the stars,
    and hope one day
    in the strangest night,
    someone will come along
    and wonders about all the
    stories that light forgot to tell.




    And I'll tell you all of them...��


    I love talking about stars at 2 in the morning ��

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  • branthan 2w

    Some people are worth the trouble ��

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  • branthan 2w

    how ironic it is that
    we exist in a world
    full of buildings and
    streets full of
    homeless dreams.

    Maybe it is okay to be homeless. When you don't have a rooftop above your head, it gives you more room to grow, a better view of this world.

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