carvedcardiac

[carvedcardiac]

𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗒𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗒 ─ 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗒𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗒 ─ 𝗉𝗈𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗂𝖺𝖼. 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾.    ─  𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌.

𝗈𝗇𝖾. stained tombs.

one who has never seen light, will never be afraid of eternal night child of nyx wearing death as perfume, over gleaming enamels, staining tombs, phantom songs of overcast skies, lingering touch and veiled demise.

𝗍𝗐𝗈. tartarean moons.

of glinting blades and foggy dreams, and blocked visions of tragic skins, of tartarean moons and spilled ink, obscurantic eclipses and tempests sink. escaped prisoners with hollowed skin, rotten bones and perishing children, midnight blankets all this sin, envelopes the planet in shadows of glee.

𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾. child of eclipses.

child of the eclipses, you were born to the dark, lungs filled with stardust, you breathe in a venom, nothing could stop how unshakeable you are. midnight carved into a child of eternal night, footsteps into fate's silent rays of hearth. a spark in your heart, you are an awaiting blaze, a nightmare of a world, you stay strong still. even if your soul is asleep in this night, you glow with the stars just as captivating tonight.

𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋. violin’s string.

sleepless nights on a violin's string, fingertips carved a woman out of stone. sculpted nebula and galaxies in our kins, a burning utopia with planetary pins, subtle lies that adorn the cremated skies, woven with wisps of november winds.

𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾. chained to the anchor.

parted friends no longer entwined hands, we are cold soldiers of a mournful battle. villainous efforts to bring her back, the storm clouds had already turned black. no use in struggling, chained to the anchor, withering tulips as fragments of torment. in the end of time, eras of the night will follow, we were no lovers, we were hellfires hidden, the only fighters left standing, survivors of war.

𝗌𝗂𝗑. icarcus and atlas.

i am not atlas, built to bear the sky on my shoulders, i am meant fly too close to the sun, burn my wings like icarcus, awaiting my inevitable downfall.

𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇. seek ground in quicksand.

i will drown in the vastness of humanity, seeking for ground in quicksand, never ends well for anyone in perdition. archives of the cries of children in cradles, absentmindedly sung lullabies of mothers, anklets and chains that tie will never go, alas, i will not expend over the sins of my past.

𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. rome built on ruins.

i will sink like atlantis, breathe in, then i will recall, all hope is not gone, for rome was built on ruins. i have believed in every lie i was served, on a silver platter encrusted with jewels, was being numb to distress, forgetting to breathe not enough? and i want to drown in this abyss, i want to inhale the poison, i want to burn for you if it means you will witness my devotion.

𝗇𝗂𝗇𝖾. touch starved wings.

nocturnal burns of heartache, distant pieces of vintage harmonies, mystical whispers of utopian affairs, blazing hearts of touch-starved wings, the glamour of a prison of darling's sins. a fallen warrior is none but a fallen angel, the one who became the devil is every soul.

𝗍𝖾𝗇. creation and cremation.

creation and cremation, in the end of it all, we are made of earth, we become the earth, we are made of so little, in this tiny ripple in time, what significance do we have? in the vastness of the infinite, will our stories be worth the heartache?

𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇. dreary eyelids.

dreary eyelids that cover, the poison in our hearts, phantom flowers in our soul, haunting of blades against skin, all the teardrops we keep hidden, stain our lungs in aching arcs. oh the tragedies we repress, the human mind is not the simplest.

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾. illusions of beauty.

some wounds will cause the sorrow to flow out in rivers of poetry in mystical abodes of mist. some wounds will cause the venom to drift out of us in languages of heaven. illusions of beauty to conceal the hideousness of our minds. maybe it was beauty that we needed to ignore how ugly we know we can be.

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇. realms of ink.

If i wither into nothing and become a part of earth's subterranean realm, my bones will bleed in coals and ink, for all the colours and life from me were already long gone.

𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇. the love i carve.  

do you know what i mean when i said 'i love you'? i meant that I would rather lose myself to keep loving you than ever let you go. if i could carve out parts of me to make you happy, darling, i would never hesitate to. so obsessive, you say, but at the end of the day, can anyone love you more?

𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇. wilted flowers.

i am yet another rotten flower, i wilt under the sun's radiance, for all life has been emptied from me. yet i applaud him, for this once impossible feat, my envy burns my soul to ashes, unlovable, i stand here half-dead: life may have gone from me, but i will not give up. though how much i know that i can never be loved and of use, i will put myself through all the pain just to see you beam in bliss.

𝗌𝗂𝗑𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇. wings.

if i am meant to fly, where are my wings, are they on my ribs or are they on my tombstone? if i am meant to be free why am i anchored down to the depths of the ocean with thoughts like slow poison? if we aren't meant to be why do you feel like home? is life just a string of regrets fate provides us with?

𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇. songs of death and life.

chords of the spine i decorate with songs of death and life, we sing in melodies of storms and dance barefoot on the blade of perdition and paradise. together we stand on this earth our purpose is to make this our hearth.

𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇. giver.

you tell me to keep more love for myself instead of pouring it out to the giver. but have i ever been a taker? no, for you deserve more love than i, so much love it flows the edges of the sky. who am i to take it away when i can pluck out a flower of hope from the horizon and give it you instead of keeping it for myself?

𝗇𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇. untrue to yourself.

along the way, all of us have become unpunished murderers. oh if only killing away parts of ourselves was a crime in law's eyes, maybe, it would cause us to live for once. do you not call being untrue to yourself the biggest lie one can ever utter?

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒. porcelain dolls.

i cry prettier than i could ever smile, maybe that is why i feel sadness more than love and care. if i am destined to this hurt, who am I to defy fate? i am human, i march towards death, every second is a blessing and a curse and who am i to defy what is meant to be? i am a mere porcelain marionette doll, prone to breaking yet beautiful i cry, if i was meant to die why do I try to fly?

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾. fearless.

a palette of colours, you paint away the world used to be so dull a grey. the darkness didn't disappear; it became a fatal blue. a sip on venom, i knew it yet continued, fearless. epiphany hits; you didn't poison a thing, you made it a beautiful lie. too good to last it was snatched away. you didn't poison a thing, my dearest, your absence became the poison that i knew i could be served, yet i continued, fearless. like a moth to a flame, i knew you could burn me, yet i seeked your warmth, aware i would regret it.

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗈. graveyards and gardens.

i take up too much space, i yearn to be small as dust and sleep eternally in peace for in this universe, can we ever be fully painless? i want to paint myself, just once before i fade into the canvas, you tell me i can be happy, that peace is after the fight ends, but i will be a graveyard by then, though i was a garden before. now, death blooms in my dreams, dear. death blooms in my dreams.

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾. beloved sunflower.

darling sunflower, do you know how loved you are? the sun burns for you every day just to lend you warmth. the gardener waters you every day just to see you smile bright. the children visit you to see you dance in happiness and joy. now tell me, how does it feel like to be loved? is it effortless or is it wishful thinking?

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋. an angel you are.

blades and burns, beautiful scars pretty little glinting stars. we see them so pretty, yet they see us even prettier, we are far, far away yet teach each other so much. you deserve the stars on a silver plate, not half broken hearts nor hate. an angel you are, you say i am under a spell, but do you not see how utterly beautiful you are inside?

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾. broken mirrors.

monsoon paints the pieces of broken mirrors, mesh and mist, endangered throats are meant to enclose voices of gale and storm. a sound that cracks the lungs are a mere reflections of rotting tongues. caged phrases of cynical origins must slip from our lips to find closure.

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗑. maps of youth.

twisted tales of youth take us to the complexity of our minds. why must a map be drawn of our destinations and definition? some are fading flowers, others a blooming ghost lily worthy of gods, concluding, all the lovesick rivers unite at the garden of fools.

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇. defy the divine.

altered art and morphed minds dare we dip a foot in this pool of desire, destiny, diverse & death? devoted diagrams of danger we paint, we are not meant to defy the divine. there are sufficient saviours yet just not enough to help us up when we burn by thoughts; a fatal quicksand.

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. the empty, heavy chest.

an empty chest that feels heavy; i expected treasure, i found hate. malicious, burning hate that made all that was sweet and sane to burn, ashes of them, a faint phoenix, it all arises for mere moments and it dies with all duties left undone. not of use to anyone, i found an empty chest that feels heavy; i expected treasure, i found myself.

𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗇𝖾. chase a butterfly. 

would you recognize a butterfly if it's wings weren't visible, or would you just see the ugliness and hate it? it stays just the same to itself for the poor thing, it just can't see it's wings. but could you ever chase it after knowing the truth?

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒. shards of stained glass.

so now that all we had is gone i will wish you the best, all the lovely memories we had are now a pile of ash, and i am truly sorry for all the times I made a flower like you wither by staying beside my flame. push me away before i burn you, for i won't burn myself. though i deserve your hatred, why are we still trying to fix what is already gone? it's a broken stained glass, beautiful to look through yet the edges will make both of us bleed.

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾. too lovelorn.

this feeling, i am homesick of being lovelorn like i used to be. when did the pain feel like home, when did the yearning for love become a part of me? all this love you give me, it's so, so unfamiliar. is it me that is unlovable, or am i fated to be undeserving of love? destiny must have lied to me when it said love is a happy ending, it is nothing but an open door, all i want is to close it and be lovesick again.

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗈. songbirds.

songbirds, so sweet their melodies yet all they sing of is an antique tragedy. so harmonious their voice, a fragment of our evenings spent as riverside lilies. they sing and sing sleepless, sent from paradise, they sing for ones who fear sleep and terrors that crawl amidst their dreams. songbirds, they are sad as you, yet they sing and sing and sing till their throats rot.

© 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗂𝖺𝖼.  𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅. 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁.