Another night, another dotted line, I sign my heart away to you; some call it foolish, guess I'll call it art

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  • lunamystic_seraph 3w

    It's 4 am again.
    I can hear the guard dogs of our neighbouring house howling away into the void, their voice multiplied each time with the addition of another lone howl.
    I feel the same, at times.
    I feel like staring into nothingness and screaming my lungs out.
    I wonder what I would loathe more-
    The echo or the answer.

    It's 4 am again.
    The trains in the next town's station are whistling away into silence: shaking the ground with their firm sounds at first, only to die out into dead quiet.
    How wonderful it would be to go out with such a bang. To let the world know, "Yes, I was here, I survived," only to be muffled by the weight of the darkest hour.

    It's 4 am right now.
    My ears are ricocheting between the ticking of my wall clock and the table clock at the same time.
    Funny thing is, the wall clock ran out of battery a while ago. The hand of the hour and the hand of the minute stay stuck in place, but the seconds still soundly pass, reminding me everytime of moments I've let slip away.
    I bought new batteries two days ago. I never put them in. I think I'd rather let it stay this way.

    It's 4 am again and I'm writing my thoughts down in the most haphazard way possible.

    Somedays you're the wall in front of which I shout until my throat burns dry and my ears bleed, and yet there's now echo, no answer.

    Somedays you're the train that waltzed in with a deafening noise, as if to let everyone in earshot know that you were here. Once you left, you left the station barren. And now I am standing with a ticket that is invalid, for a train that might never arrive again.

    Somedays you're the grandfather clock on my wall: each swing of your tongue a gentle reminder of passing seconds gone in vain but stuck in a time frame that never really changes. The memories stayed in place like two of those hands. But the ticking always reminds me of the moments that will no longer have a place in those.

    It's 4 am again.

    I'm just writing my thoughts down with stupid comparisons that make zero sense.

    I wonder if you could tell if you ever came across my writing.
    Would you be angry that I am still holding onto you: blaming you, but kissing you, and aimlessly waiting for you all the same?

    Or would you just close the book you had once opened with such enthusiasm, and go on with your life, leaving the story stuck in the last chapter you left on read?


  • lunamystic_seraph 5w

    The corners of my eyes moisten
    With the perked up ends of my lips
    None of my memories account for this feeling
    I can not feel this warmth in the ashes you left
    Yet my fingers glide effortlessly
    As my blood turns to ink
    I am not crying. I am not broken
    A part of me shattered like broken trust
    And dead promises keep me awake at night
    But in this moment, I am alive.
    I am warm.
    I am healing.
    And I write - my only medicine for a disease I can't name,
    A hurt I can't pinpoint,
    A scar I can't see.
    But I smile, and I let the bliss take over
    My wet cheeks carry not trails of sorrow
    There is happiness in being alone
    With just the quill, the paper, and myself,
    Without you,
    But not feeling feeling lonely.
    I do not feel lonely.
    Not anymore.


  • lunamystic_seraph 7w

    Is there another life?
    Shall I awake and find all this a dream?
    There must be, we cannot be created for this kind of suffering.

  • lunamystic_seraph 11w

    The cards that we have been dealt:
    An inevitable loss
    From the very start, and yet
    We both choose to play.


  • lunamystic_seraph 12w

    And isn't it beautiful, the way we break?
    As our eyes turn to waterfalls
    And our cheeks become riverbeds,
    Caressing the salty streams
    As our lips quiver with silent questions
    For promises unkept and
    Decisions gone unpalatably wrong
    And our feet give in to the
    Forces of nature, and we sink
    To the embrace of the cold, hard ground
    And we propel ourselves up
    With shaky hands, and fingers pale and
    Bruised from holding on a
    Little too long to the ones who
    Were but ghosts
    Now living in the shadows of a
    Forever that didn't last.
    We stare up at the moonstruck welkin, searching
    Beyond the soon-to-be heavenly graveyard, and the
    Dying twinkle of distant stars,
    For a reason to piece ourselves
    Back together.
    And surprisingly, eventually, we do.
    Isn't that beautiful.

    #mirakee #writersnetwork #writersbay #poetrywednesday #random @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    We stare up at the moonstruck welkin, searching
    Beyond the soon-to-be heavenly graveyard, and the
    Dying twinkle of distant stars,
    For a reason to piece ourselves
    Back together.
    And surprisingly, eventually, we do.
    Isn't that beautiful.


  • lunamystic_seraph 13w

    Turns out love
    Wasn't able to save us
    Both after all.

  • lunamystic_seraph 14w

    It is always harder to be
    the one waiting when
    you can never be sure
    if they're coming back or not.

  • lunamystic_seraph 16w

    At the end of the day, maybe a pair of arms is the home where we really belong.


  • lunamystic_seraph 16w

    There have been such amazing prompts lately but I'll be honest, the last few posts have been kinda meh and it's cause I'm not really confident with what I came up with? I see all these amazing write-ups and then I look at my own and I'm like… "Nope. Definitely not putting that up on the app."
    It's not really writer's block, but more like I'm not satisfied enough with what I've been writing.
    Hope that meant something.
    P.s. here's a writing meme cause why not

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  • lunamystic_seraph 16w

    "All we have to fear is fear itself."
    - Roosevelt