I Will Never Be My Mom. Or Dad. Never.

you're not

alone.

i too,

stay up at night,

wondering -

that brief

moment

of isolation

helps you

find your peace.

"the darkest nights."

d.b.a

for a.

Identity

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

How do I relieve myself of these emotions, If not by bleeding myself on paper? How do I express myself to the world, If not by baring myself for everyone to see? What is my comfort, if not being vulnerable with words? Where do I go, if not to pen and paper? To whom do I share my happiness, sadness, My sorrows, and guilt? Where do I let out my anger, Before it turns me cold and sharp? Where do I pour out the storm, Before it drowns me? Tell me, what do I do, If not write?

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

©Pen_Pain_Poetry

— Henry Dumas, Knees of a Natural Man: The Selected Poetry of Henry Dumas; "Saba"

Trust me. Trios are the weirdest. And cutest.

i filled poison in my veins,

i choked all my screams,

did everything i could,

so that you, my love,

will never realise the things that run through my head.

so wild. and chaotic.

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

i was today years old when i realized that we don't have to be the same person everyday, we can always be a completely different person tomorrow; we can change our aesthetics, our interests or what makes us us. we haven't owed anyone to be the same on a daily basis we can change constantly. this is us putting ourselves in brackets or definition or whatever you call it.

How to catch me

the world is heartbreaking every day and the world is beautiful every day and we have to pay attention to both

Reblog if you think it’s okay to platonically say “I Love You” to your friends