My soul speaks a language no one else speaks.
It hurts in a language only it knows.
Trapped in a pain without a translation.
Yet every once in a while, during a quiet night,
a translation presents itself.
My soul clings onto it
like an infant to its mother.
In those times, I rip a purple paper to write it down,
before the words are lost in the dark again
and my soul goes quiet like the streets outside once again.
After that, those purple papers are all I have left in a language
besides the one my soul quietly screams in.
YOU ARE READING
evening thoughts
RandomDeep thoughts, as in sleep-deprived at 3am with untreated mental issues and traumas and too many poetry videos on my fyp. I'll just vibe here with them until I feel like getting better. TW for everything I guess.
