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https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMNkrx5kN/?k=1
          
          Le dialogue de cette vidéo en entier c'est le texte du brevet no joke vrmnt

@Aya_txzz  Avec plaisir ma belle ♡

@Aya_txzz  Merciii <333

Merci pour ton abonnement : )

merci pour le fomlow back, belle gosse 

a small token of kindness (25th November 2021) 
          
          fangs of fortitude unmask themselves from the rays of the sun and buckle in tenderly to a musty memoir. maternity remains, in most of its stages, within the sky's blends; like soft lather from a coffee's gaze. what is meant to be forgotten sticks around in the climate of the mind, as though music from piano's striking stars. 
          
          watch and catch, hold and explore, what the jewels of the night sing as a prose; as a reminder of its stretched solitude, from one bit of its existence to the rest; marks of slippery injury and sweat upon its body. much it begs for, dark after dark, in trillium twilights, in coffee-lit sunsets, in flickering frostbites and mourning mangroves. 
          
          in the obliterated shores of the abandoned seas, of the golden sand marked with diabolical tongues of caramels, there are present gleams of faded beginnings and unstrained marks of life's plannings. unbearably beautiful it is; they hold onto the fury of the waves and wishes the sea goodbye. 
          
          things that can lure the air into desolation, by their side and beside their gaping heart, are those black with loneliness. cradle the pink veins of the foetus with the thick knot of the placenta around it; a momentary connection between life and its second form. it is alone there, the new heart, in its own pool of sorrows. 
          
          every so often, it is apparent and seen, the mind making connections with several violins; and the foetus an instrument rare to hold. many a beats a heart uses, but none can it find close enough to even see. prettiness is a state of solitude; like a cloud of beauty but nothing to rely upon. and the stars that hang all night without a bed to toss upon. 
          
          mind is easy to befriend, like a balm of butter. it is the heart that is blackened with solitude, a universe mistaken as an enemy's ground. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (24th November 2021) 
          
          the veteran sun holds close the magenta rage; traces of maternal spine and a shadow of the constricted girl in a woman gulped by slaughterers. raspy words and kites of innocence, demanding notes and pastel shaded envelopes; a finger slashed with extravagant remorse. the morning king wraps a shawl around the human's mind, in a fire, wherein it burns to history and earth. 
          
          upon maturation, the queen of a every knight, flickers its snowflakes over the velvet-like pride of forests and flowers, lovers and lies. many then are torn down to serenity, their skulls exposed to burning tears; the moon an acidic hue. soft parlors of stars etched upon lips of beautiful fury; muddled reflections of an anxious devil and a heart wet with faith's dewiness. 
          
          hands and fingers stuck in cold windows, in the society's concept of a prejudiced prison; wrung by the stomach and hung by the heart, flung into the air like a sea's wild swan. mouths of rain and hearts of manners, time of today and aches of tomorrow; whirled between eternity and death of every second. 
          
          realisation has dissolved into thin earth, minds now poisoned by the devil's apple. run and run while glued to the present, die and die succumbing to the gone nights in the future. vessel of brass brimming with age, bodies and souls molested by suppressed veins. 
          
          we run; we run fast with names, we run as if to catch death, as if to slaughter the days. we run as though to hold the passed breaths, the warm liquid of yesterday in our palms bare and the beats of journeys scratched into nails. we run as the sun does behind the moon,  but never once sit back against the trees of time and watch home unfold with our blood of present smiles. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (23rd November 2021) 
          
          the sun falls upon the aretha of moments, decorating and brushing the edges with strings of silver feathers. the mellow pond speaks a tale, a fable of nine thousand glows and one of the rising  petals of dawn. 
          
          each man holds a sword to the night; a gleam of dancing echoes, a ferocious pilgrimage to the sublime stone. the tulips fall against the aging sea, bathed in turmeric and bits of achilles heel. what threatens it but a thing of love. what drowns is but a piece of land. 
          
          the war has submerged the scents of mind, deep in the bones of wheat fields. balance bothers the sky, numbers a human's intellect. what weighs and is weighted with words is never a feeling of flowers, rather a bridge of stone with the heart clogged into stone. 
          
          the stars on a palm's freedom would be briefly beautiful. in prison, however, like a forever depicted. the hands we have two, one for life and the other to choke, like flowers of divorce, the shades conspicuous of the lethal rides. 
          
          love from a distance, even from an unseen mouth, how distinguishable it is, how luring, as though a mother in devil. it comes from deserted feet and wallowing winds and ancient tombs, it comes from fogged graves and disloyal crimes and diminishing music notes. 
          
          true love is ridiculous, but so is life. from a distance, it smells like heaven's musk, like a glance filled with soft petals of dusk. but near, near to us, in us, never found. as though our soul lives far away from us. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of extra kindness. 
          
          there is a theody that a river of enshrined pomegranates wears upon its bare bones; one that is freed from the encumbrance of pleadingly staying onto the tree that had it bleed to red. the sky sheds its coat of honour upon the sun and the glassed finds; singing souvenirs to the minds of drunken devotees. 
          
          once a ground of ache blooms, the tragedies of the voices hanging in the air, sink deep, and deeper, desperately, for a place of the pink; for an echo of their existences.  the moon hangs about in cold laziness and in public perspiration, a side of it lost to the air that had it cherished until it resembled a ghost white. 
          
          by the riverside, in the vibrations of the fluorescent light, a daisy flows in agony with the sweet sound of the intact glory. under her stem, within her petal, she finds her fibres despondently linked to a master that would swallow her bite by bite; until her mind would swell and her petals would spread her dry. 
          
          to every heart, the monster is its mind. to every sun, its sky. to a rich river,  its poor inhabitants. and to delirium, reality. one must realise through the ashes, that the fire is a form of light; a little more intense that the sun, its close relative. what the sun can bring to life with its light, perhaps fire can do that by burning the old country times. 
          
          like the sky that unleashes its thunders from time to time, let your monster be a little free upon areas where harm would be least inflicted. but if you should still feel deeply ashamed of yourself, then begin the deed by being ashamed of the sky with its pain and painkillers. 
           #adropofhumanity