some stories are made to be narrated, I play story teller here. Quite rusted in habits.

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  • darknessisbliss 5d

    Stuck in an Elevator

    I want to lay, heads down and breathing the serenity in like an oxygen mask. I'm filled too much with pulchritude of belonging to darkness. I was taking limping steps towards the ever aging stairs to my destination.

    That day, the sky felt too small and my head spun like a round clock.

    I decided in a daze to opt for the unreliable elevator. Maybe my drunken senses could never become sober after leaving your shadows. Limpid casual walk or a mannerless brute is what they all call me in spite. I stepped in and waited for the doors to shut.

    Just me and another stranger who gets in by blocking the doors with the other foot. All I could see was another shadow adjacent to mine. The ding of the elevator making sure to travel north. The stranger whistled “can I call you tonight” by dayglow and I stood there like a rag doll, unaffected.

    A sudden jerk and my limped legs gave up. There was an abundance of nothingness and electricity that abandoned two humans. I was still down, close to gravity and far from heaven. Black settled in every nook and corner of the square box. And eyes started to acquaint darkness comfortably.

    The stranger was there, breathing experienced breaths like it's a routine. My heart was worked up but I had the assurance of those calm breaths somewhere close to me.

    I wanted to lay heads down and breathe in the serenity like an oxygen mask. I'm belonging to darkness this time.

    When the lights flickered their arrival. I saw everything lit up like a surprise waiting for the right time. I saw who the stranger was, but my drunken senses told me its hallucination. It was death clad in its traditional dressing.

    That day, the sky felt too small and my head spun like a round clock.

    Falling too close to death and far from the north.

  • darknessisbliss 1w

    I wrote this not long before when I boarded a train to my hometown. The crowd was full of men and those are the emotions I felt at that moment of time.

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    Broken Sacredness

    Gaze to the bystanders, hasty lives spitting onto the roads as if their personal pits. The trailing dizziness like an unstoppable feat. Plays hide and seek, the age-old darkness into the night. Hide the monsters and innocence skips to seek the light.

    Desire held hostages in starving eyes. A woman climbs to the peak when all that besiege are men all around. Hiding is she again, her fears and murdering desires too. The face of a man hiding monsters within. She seeks for the light, but God has already permitted her to bleed.

    A murky black pool, her guts jutting out from beneath her devouring skin. Such a beauty gone to waste, she killed her own soul. Come at the funeral, still the hunger to devour her more won't leave. After all, some humans are special.

    A goddess bathed black in the blood of her assaults, the aftermath still painting a mural for the ashamed onlookers. Lights passing through the creeks of two mountains, shedding the rays of realization. A woman is still afraid to exist when hounds are wearing flesh and bones.

    They destroyed a goddesses shrine. They destroyed her blessings. Now only curses follow whoever worships her broken sacredness.

  • darknessisbliss 2w

    Back again? I fool myself to think that.

    I rushed my blood like a horse too tired to carry the win on its own padded legs. There's a lose, waiting just at the finishing line. I wish no audience to cheer and crush the bundled expectations.

    I pass like a train, hooting to get noticed by the replaced passengers, new faces and old habits. It's a gradual increase in the velocity of the wind, but I'm still. An object caught between time and space, Einstein knows it better.

    I crawl like an ant, but I seem to be walking pretty fine. The humongous humans may think I'm crawling at less than normal speed. But what have they achieved? Walking over the things that were too slow in their pace and normalcy.

    I caught dust all over my body. Some kid decided to draw the name of his crush, he will never confess to but surprisingly entrust me. I felt the secret was too small and can be kept easily but then someone else drew an arrow passing through the heart, and I decided to keep the love hidden beneath me, and piled up more dust invisible to the naked eyes.

    I still wonder, if dust settled on me or was it me becoming a magnet for everything covert. Estranged is all I feel, these days.

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  • darknessisbliss 3w

    I have the words perfectly settled on the tip of my tongue. Sorry, a five-letter word yet holds no emotion. I have no idea which adjective to use after or a subject to address it toward. I'm incompatible in the crudest sense of realization.

    I can't say this is a new experience for me. But maybe after feeling the same oftentimes, I've come to name it authentically. Am I sorry? Or it's the guilt of messing up everything that was in a set order. I'm heaving, out of breath for some reason.

    Maybe I know the reason, and I'm just fooling my concise. It's better that way, to keep everyone in the dark. They won't know and I'd never tell. Keep this in the safest place, where even your grave won't unearth. I have trust issues and people around me are selling themselves.

    I don't want mentions of someone that's already trying to make a present for itself, far away from me where they own an island. I wished to visit once, but it seems I wrecked their ship and made its ruins my pastime from the past.

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    "There's a language that follows
    When a secret is rendered,
    Mine was so hollow
    Even silence sought liberation."

  • darknessisbliss 3w

    Truth be told.

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    Shitty writer

    Often than not, I have the words arranged in the order correlating with my emotions and everything I'm able to constitute. I also have the intentions clear from illusions, but at times every emotion screams for the attention and torments for becoming a protagonist of which I'm the villain.

    For the moment, I'm not a writer and I'm blatantly throwing words around only to have them bounce back in the minds of others. No, I don't bother to glance back else I will lose my footing and stumble down on muddy grass fields only to find myself lost.

    Humans learn easily to lie more perfectly so than knowing how to perceive things without any loopholes. I haven't seen the world clearly, maybe I'm too far-sighted in my vision. I'm usually colorblind to the facades of others and mine. Maybe I won't share this one, but then again words are constructed to be recognized to the extent of at least a person’s relatability level.

    I can read well, usually contemplating the underlying emotions with assumptions of my own. Somehow, I know how to find quality and not cliched stories reframed in active or passive voices in undulated versions. I want to become a writer, where can I find the manual?

    I've given up the search when it constitutes of incoherently yelling gibberish in capital letters or at frequent times, expressing the unadulterated version where the heart feels like a rebel to blurt out naked mountains. There's also a mild version of the truth that paints a perfect scenario of how life can be fair to some, but where's a casualty in that?

    With every prologue of the story, I won't forget to mention I turned to be a shitty writer, after all.

  • darknessisbliss 4w


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    I know of a war, silent in its mouth.
    Piercing the sky bounds
    With scathe made of reveries,
    Bled the heavens in the nightfall
    A serene picturesque embodiment.

    I loved like a jealous lover
    And lost the charms
    Stolen from every infant breath,
    It kept occurring, no pauses to mourn
    The dead were lamented, shrewd and gone
    The living felt no purpose, one that would resurrect the tombs.

    I caked my hands in a teaspoon of afflictions
    Hands aged like that of a senile woman,
    Much earlier than this battlefield of a bosom,
    Pleads were thrown in a mass hearing
    But the countenance was folly.

    I bemoaned the benedictions
    In the room reeking of black ravens,
    The cassock of the priest
    Lay eminently under the sage of flare,
    Cursing the discordant fate
    How great of a warrior I made
    When the soil seeped blood too
    While I found only a pair of feet
    That grieved countless sacrifices,
    Pitying the faith and hope
    Marked under the feet with lines of sorcery,
    I lamented the alive
    That outlived the corpses,
    The heart that could beat
    Only the repercussions of the postwar.

  • darknessisbliss 4w

    Just a muse.

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    You never saw
    And I became blind,
    You never heard
    And I spoke void,
    Inches separated
    The mutual flame,
    Do not bargain with love
    This heart is illiterate
    It can be easily lost or found.

  • darknessisbliss 4w

    What's say?

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    It's time to put forward steps, each foot is trying to gain domination without the host's consent. The host is a tarnished body, knowing not when 'enough' started leaking without any limits.

    I please my sadness, like a dancer with enticing moves to lure its master. That's how I fill my body with needed supplies, the only exception being, death's inevitability.

    Passing by in a fast motion, I saw the pink flowers growing on trees, trespassing the branches and overshadowing its wild side. I think of a memory, much foggy with insecurities. I think of a person, whose memories I've marked with them.

    They had three petals, in the imperfect alignment with each other. The first petal signifies the time when I entered into chambers made of unknown walls. The second petal, I knew it's been long since I started to sink, I'm fully drowned now and I've made time sink with me too.

    The third petal though, I craved for the air impregnated with hate and greed for lust. I couldn't sink anymore, lungs became too dysfunctional. I started flapping the numbed arms, I started to rise only to find the chains sunk deep inside my throat.

    The middle part of the flower, however, inhabited yellow pollen like seeds. Just like a womb sheltering sun's children. It made me content for awhile to breathe toxicity with much affluence, but I couldn't see an end to it.

    The flower will wilt at some point, but I won't be present when the change takes place. There's another funeral I have to tend towards, I never had any friends or enemies, to mourn or curse while I lived or will perish along with the wilting flower.

    A request this reposed heart asks for, give my regards to the dying flower, as my death is still in procession. I could never write about happiness, but can you bring those pink flowers to my funeral?

  • darknessisbliss 5w

    Agreed? Great.

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    I stand firm. My legs have become accustomed to being straight at all times. Perhaps, my knees have become concrete from scraping themselves on the harsh surface of your exterior lies.

    I want to write poems, the ones where I can veil my dogmatic behavior. There's no need, my conscience says as I've already made countless foolish mistakes. This one shall be no different either.

    I say, fall for a writer but never for the poet. A writer knows how to build a plot, but a poet knows the language of metaphors. A writer will manipulate your emotions with honest descriptions about love, but a poet will paint verses in your blood. And the worst part? You won't know how to comprehend a poem, where you died and then got loved.

    Sadly though, when I started the journey of self-love. I faced the bitter truth with splashes of ambiguous metaphors. From then on, I began carrying a warning sign hanging around my neck. To avoid any love, that might come across this writer cum poet.

  • darknessisbliss 5w

    I learned to breathe sinful oxygen, blended in bloods of regret and guilt, heavy hearts never learned to lean.

    I needed an audience as an outlet for my scrambling emotions, ugly to the four walls stained in misplaced hurts. But I never learnt letting go of people, of memories, of scars and observations.

    They took a sweet revenge, dousing me in the hot cold blood of winter. Teeth chattered from overbearing abrasive behaviour of things I built temples for. Heart learned to forgive, but seemingly couldn't let go, once more.

    Tears scrubbed the dirty floors with sobbing lungs to sustain the torment from the house master. They cared I told myself, and kept mopping until the floor started to reflect my sorrow stained existence.

    They did care, of course. After every whipping of belt, they felt loved by inflicting bruises and blood leaking out, inhaling ashes of expectations. But my love started perishing, as did my body with marks of adoration and confession.

    I betrayed the love for myself and loved the verses instead. Words let me die peacefully, and I never once let go, staining ink from now; an alternative for blood.
    I feel stuck for no reason ��

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    "Words let me die peacefully, and I never once let go, staining ink from now; an alternative for blood."