_I write now as if writing is that tunnel that I flee to as a refugee when the world cannot help.
I'm writing now hoping to get rid of this noise that was about to kill me.
Write and that I'm in a war that doesn't subside.
Until sleep is no longer the obedient friend who was helping me On going over the past days.
I write while I'm no longer left with anything but those papers that I tire of falling on them and the pens that are accustomed to that weak hand.
I write with my eyes piled up with tears.
I don't mean by them just the tears that are poured out on Only the cheeks.
Rather, I mean those expressions trapped inside the eyes that are screaming, hoping that this noise will subside For what your heart is about cannot be translated by mere expressions spilled from that miserable eye that is accustomed to repeated bouts of sadness and which the folds of your soul carried far greater than it is to be tired Just words that are spoken, even if they were in letters, were made specifically for the spells of grief and if we said people wouldn't understand it.
The soul has become dispersed.
Will she reveal it so that she can rest, or will she still be sadness in her bed.
When will the day of suffering shine and the sun of rest shine?
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Writing is the star of our life
RandomSometimes we can't express our thoughts and feelings to people, resort to writing until others understand us, cross our hearts and thoughts to reach what we want.💫
