How can you compare
a sculpture and an artist?
They are physically dual,
but have one soul.
They seem human,
but are God itself.
They create.
They destroy.
They can't be compared.
But one thing they lie about:
It’s all fictional...
or maybe it is?
It's illusion.
Have you heard "You have to become the best version of yourself to find love?" Well, what about not so best versions of me? What about the worst parts of me? What about the things that I just can't change about myself? Loving the best version
1 At my wisdom's end gazing forward Still at a loss of scripts to mean so hard, So many lands may have passed though A sudden call from your semi–broken door to follow , Yearning for that blessed string from the farthest Already entered into, opening dull brain&
I think our parents weren’t monsters—They were people trying to survive with tools they were never taught how to use. They loved in the only language they knew, and many of us spent years translating that love into something we could live with. We don’t blame them.
You are my black ink— the one I used so many times, yet not enough to leave behind. You are my black ink, the one which bleeds through my pen, through my eyes, and I cover it up with lies, calling it just... “My mascara’s melting, guys.” You are