#lifeisgone

[mariorc03]

#lifeisgone 😎👉🏼👉🏼 https://www.instagram.com/p/CCcO8EssClaUxW4KtrmSTikdX_uT4GmO0JiEhU0/?igshid=1g8mypl7aso75

[voicesthatspeak]

I hear you singing in my head I hear you singing when I get out of bed I hear you singing when I sit on the dock and look off into a bleak distance. I don't hear you singing when I fill my self full of poison only to make you go the fuck away like the rest of my so called family. Please leave my head as I know you are dead and there is nothing nothing nothing I can do but to feel blue with singing in my head. God I wish I was dead so that fucking singing wasn't in my head.

[yogeshchandraauthorblog-blog]

The Beautiful Truth—Wasted and Depressed Clouds

Have you ever wondered—in each act that is hiding its rays behind a colorful mask that purity is the ultimate imposter in this endless soil? To the amuse, of all that life has to offer, there are times when one falls into the dispositions of reality—which is nothing real at all. In fact, the songs are nothing but the same symphony fabricated over and over again.

The truth is that everyone is going to pour pleasurable acid on top of your thin and glossy skin, no one will be there to save you. And the lover you so unconditionally hold onto—she will put stains on your silk and make love to the other man, such artistic night of love making scenes that she does not even recall your name the next day.

Reality is such rarely divided, it feels like life is meant to be a beautiful deceive each second and to harness the rays of life—one has to die over and over again, inside the same skin only meant to be lived once, thrice—under the tempests of July and the Bipolar clouds that always surround humanity.

One longs for sex, the other—O Jupiter inside my mind, heavily sedated and sophisticated things in limbo, what is life or what is death in life? To the truth, everyone is waiting with blunt daggers just to stab you and make you feel like you are nothing but a worthless skin never meant to be. If one were to rise, the other were to start packing his swords such soberly, careful with the stab of the evening my love.

No one ever notices the sick and the dying—the depressed and the lonely—O unloved mind in desperation, calmly setting into calamity, curious of the end of days. And his skin, soft and intense, filled with stains of hunger and denial, life is nothing but an impoverished love story sung thrice. O help thee dying, with not a single penny to thy name, a little smile that is alien to the humans.

It gets very difficult for me, trying my best to live inside my own skin each day, with nothing but an unloved mind and the currents of August that never seem to depart. The truth—no one is ever going to love you and each lover who so craftily writes poetry for her lover, beside the rainstorms and the scenting violins of harmony—and all that is, an unloved star which is never meant to be here.

Rhythms such abstract, and the forests have long left. The corporate mogul’s want it completely destroyed, and to the entirety of the situation room—none will be left of it and the room, well there isn’t any single wood left to build us a red house beside the soft and melodious waterfall—where birds once sung and the tress sprung like air on Moon.

Life is a beautiful sad story and the truth is that nobody really cares. We have to continue breathing, for the art gets distressing, and the raw emotions such inexplicable—what is this craft or the rays that never stop touching, conventional currents of overwhelming sadness, and life is nothing but a beautiful lie each second, the on-goer is just not able to comprehend. 

-Yogesh Chandra

[yogeshchandraauthorblog-blog]

Ever been loved by a razor so badly that it drained each blood out of you!

[frostback]

DIabloing hard.