πΌβπ πππππ‘πππ ππ’ππ’π π‘ π€ππ‘β ππ¦ π βπππ¦ βππππ
πβπππβπ ππ¦ πππ£ππ? π»π πππ‘ πππ π‘ π ππππ€βπππ?
πβ ππππ!
π»πβπ ππ ππ¦ ππππππ πππ ππ ππ¦ π‘βππ’πβπ‘π
π»πβπ πππ πΌ π ππ π€βππ ππ¦ ππ¦ππ πππ ππππ ππ
π΄ππ πΌβπ π βπππππ
πΌβπ π π π‘ππππππππ
πΌβπ πππππ π‘ππ’πβ βππ πππ βπ π€ππβπ‘ ππππ ππ¦ ππππ π‘ππ’πβ.
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Sometimes I feel like Iβm a forest.
Endless miles of trees and ground.
Thousands of secrets and stories that were never heard.
And the bodies, lost somewhere, dying somewhere, already dead.
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new place, new thoughts, new poems
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they said I should use more yellow when I paint, but god I tried, and I canβt take the brightness I only use red, to show where it hurts and stormy blue, so you can feel my rage too I follow lines, sometimes I cross them sometimes, I rip my art apart
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βI have this enormous anger inside, My body can barely handel it, If I get some knives in my hands, Iβm gonna throw them everywhere, They will cut the air and stuck in the walls, in the flesh.β
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What am I? A woman A corpse of a woman Trying to cover that Iβm already dead Putting some flowers in my hair So animals cannot smell That Iβm slowly rotting.
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The sea is calling me
With voices
Sweeter than melodies
Sharper than knives.
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And what, if you have already crossed that border? The one that makes the ground beneath your feet a home. What, if you can never go back to how it was before?
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Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
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My hands are red from a prayer that used to be mine, even though it never felt like it.
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I never wanted to admit how scared I was of the things living in the woods. All the creatures and roots and the sounds between blows of wind.
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I had his blood on my hands
but I couldnβt see his face.
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βThis moment reminds me so much of home. The same air that makes it easy to breathe. The birds singing like they did every spring evening in my hometown. The sky is blue and gray with a piece of melancholy just like there. But itβs not home and thatβs what breaks my heart. Iβm in this peaceful moment, but not in the right place.β
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happy international womenβs day my loves. we are all so powerful. donβt let anyone tell you otherwise. i love all of u so much
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admit it, weβve all fantasised about slow-dancing in the kitchen barefoot in our pyjamas at 2am in the arms of someone we love while old romantic jazz songs play softly on the radio
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