Views : 84,346
Genre: People & Blogs
Date of upload: Apr 21, 2024 ^^
Rating : 4.934 (47/2,781 LTDR)
RYD date created : 2024-05-03T17:09:28.345632Z
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Top Comments of this video!! :3
I just wrote a small poem:
Am I too soft or is love too hard?
Or is it just because I feel too much even though I'm empty and numb?
So what is the point of having a heart?
The point of having a heart is to pump your blood through your weins not to catch feelings for someone who would easily let you bleed out
- just a random sad person to another random sad person
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In a perfect world
Im the art, the artist and the muse
In a perfect world
Paint run in my arteries, and on my skin words bruise
In a perfect world
My love is complete, i have nothing to lose
In a perfect world
Beauty follows my footsteps, and within grace i diffuse
In a perfect world
the poet, or the poem, i dont have to choose
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Love is a cruel companion
When you expect it the least,
Love lights you up,
Makes you think you have found life -
Life in its purest essence
Makes you forget yourself
Makes you care
When there is no going back,
Love stabs you,
Right into the stomach
Drains the life out of you
Makes you realize you haven't found life -
Life has left you long ago
When you bleed,
Love doesn't stitch your wounds
It makes them burn
Burn with the pain of caring
Until you crumble into pieces
That's when love decides to be a villain
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Just a short story 😁
POV: You’re sitting in the back of your boarding school library and hear the faint melody of a violin in the distance. You look around surprised by the lovely melody, but you continue reading your book thinking it must be coming from another room. But you’re in a library how could the swift notes be hitting your ears? You get up and let your ears lead you through the bookshelves finding the violin growing louder and louder until the music becomes so clear you can pick apart each beautiful note. It was almost like it was right next to you. You leaned your head against the books closest to the music. It’s a secret room! But how to get in? You start to feel the bookcase looking for a latch or a door nob to pull. The violin ends and you hear gentle clapping and small chatter. Your hand feels an all too sturdy vase on a top shelf. You lift the heels of your feet and pull the vase. “Yes!” You say as you hear a satisfying click. As the bookcase opens into a door, you’re fueled with curiosity until you slowly open the door and realize the mistake you just made as a small society of schoolmates stares back at you.
This is my first time writing publicly so please don’t hold back any critistsim I need the tips!🥰
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I hear these songs, they tingle my note of truth, yet the girls walk, strutting out the bar door to another.
Yet I wonder if it was I they walked into the next room to.
Would we see exactly what we wanted to see?
An eternal sand chest of treasure opening to me?
Or would be yet another voice, continuously bothering another
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who caused the poet in me to die? or was it never meant to live? i cannot comprehend; was i a better poet when i was a free soul, when i had wings to fly but no reason to weep and pull them out, when i smiled till my eyes squinted? or now, when the sorrow in my heart has weighed me down? when i was the mesmerising aura everyone wanted to be around? or when i am cornered like a dark grey shadow of misfortune? when my hands quivered with excitement? or now, from the ghosts of trauma? when my laughter would fill the room and i would not hesitate? or now, when i suffocate myself with my hands and hide my thoughts on sheets of papers to find some solace? when i did not have to seek reasons to be content? or now, when i have to calm my poor soul and trick it into believing that my mind is not weathering, it's not out of control, and i won’t be the mad king in history? when mothers used to adore me? or now, when mothers in hospital corridors drag their kids out of my reach? when i wrote because i couldn't measure the love pouring out of my veins? or now, when my eyes cannot contain the tears they have long beheld? is the poet in me just sprouting? or has its bones too dissolved in the soil it is buried in?
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24:28
it's like you love someoneso so wholly and find someone so beautiful that it wreckes your whole being and takes away all your pride. and your love is just painfully there without the slightest hope of ending and is reflected in your every thoughts and everything you see. and you are utterly helpless.
and she knows it.
and then
she is there, so beautifully, she is so unbelievably beautiful its gut-wrenching and then sometimes she looks back in your eyes for a single moment. and you know
she knows.
and she is so beautiful, abused and hurt, bleeding out in the open, abandoned, full of scars, hatefully destroying herself while searching for your eyes for that one moment.
she knows it
and she knows
and she cant reciprocate
and your heart is already in pieces but you are still unable to look away.
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This playlist awakened some sort of story in me, and I decided to capture that in a poem! Here it is. :)
The Poet - (roughly) a Kyrielle
To pick my pen is but a chore;
to set my lamp and write words bores
The yellow-tinted light reflects on
Always the poet, never the poem
What I long for: a poetic partner
One who writes of me as I write of departure.
But newly, not nearly as ho-hum
Always the poet, never the poem
Shall I write for loved ones or foes?
Or a note of what stands me on my toes?
I ponder, there, in the glow of
the lamp. Always the poet, never the poem
Life: living, breathing, leaving
When shall I write a thanksgiving,
a letter, to that person—the one
Always the poet, never the poem
I shall meet, someday, thee
beneath a grand willow tree
The one who writes of me;
always the poet, never the poem.
Note: It's from the perspective of a poet who is kaput because other poets admire them, but never write about or appreciate them enough. The narrator (poet) longs for a partner to write with, but there are grim chances of that happening. By the way, (if you read to the very end) thank you so much, beautiful soul!! I know the poem is kind of long and not that well-written, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. <33
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Always the poet, never the poem.. Personally, I prefer to be the one that made someone the art they already were, I'd want for them to last longer.
In the same manner, I'd much rather prefer to watch the moon twirl and stars dance from within the reflection of someone else's eyes, they tend to shine brighter there.
I mean.. Anyway, lovely playlist
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@helderboutens
1 week ago
Just made a Discord server for the channel! Feel free to join here: discord.gg/66JWM6ga
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