𝑶𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒆,
𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔,
𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓,
𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆.
𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚;
𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒗𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒕.
𝑰 𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒍.
𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒊𝒛𝒆,
𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒙 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔,
𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒆.
𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒅 𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅,
𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒆,
𝑯𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒖𝒔,
𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒄 𝒈𝒂𝒛𝒆.
"𝑻𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚."
"𝑶𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓! 𝑮𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓!
𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆."
"𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒈𝒆,
𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒏,
𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓,
𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒈𝒂𝒛𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒆."
"𝑶𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓! 𝑪𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓!
𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆."
"𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒆,
𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅,
𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆,
𝒔𝒌𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔."
"𝑶𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓! 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓!
𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆."
"𝑨 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓;
𝒀𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅, 𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎,
𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓."
"𝑶𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓! 𝑺𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓!
𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆."
"𝑨 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆,
𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇-𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒏𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒓;
𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐;
𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏, 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒓."
"𝑶𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓! 𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓!
𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆."
𝑺𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒗𝒂𝒔,
𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒕𝒚 𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒍.
𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏;
𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒋𝒂𝒊𝒍.
𝑾𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒚 𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒇𝒖𝒓𝒚, 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒚;
𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 "𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓" 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆, "𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆."
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~𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙄 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚?
Poesía𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇. (Poems) Notice: This contains themes of sorrows, pain, death and suicides, if you aren't comfortable with it, please don't report, I've already warned you.
