Rise; to prove they couldn’t break you.
—  be above the doubts // Hina Syeda @abillionlittlethoughts

Sıra sıra dizer misin

Noktasız cümleler içinde

Satır satır gezer misin

Hem okur, hem yazar

Hem siler, hem çizer misin

Kelimeler eremez bu sırra

Sen kendini bilmez misin

Bir sır var ki nokta içinde

“Nokta” nedir bilmez misin…

“If these feelings don’t go

I just might burst

An overflow of emotions

All seeking to break free

Leaving me with nothing

Giving you my all”

- enlightenedreader ~ 23/01/18 ~

“I’m not pretty” she said as she let her bangs hide her little confidence. If not for the concrete ground, her self esteem will engulf her like a sink hole..

“It’s different from here” he said, eyes are fixed on her face, like he’s at a rooftop of a five star hotel that overshadows the city’s beautiful places while in awe of the breathtaking sunset..

—  ⠀𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒things I’d tell her

To Poetry

Struggled to exist in a life that grew so hard,

Every day became an arduous process,

Every night was difficult to pass,

Needed an escape, a refuge, to keep out the pain.

What existed inside, a turbulent storm,

Needing a place to vent,

To let them rein free,

The thoughts that became a disastrous chaos.

Found a little sanctuary in the written word,

Verses spilled,

Stanzas scribbled,

Useless rants,

Meaningless ramblings,

And considered it all,

As poetry,

Perhaps a little farfetched,

Perhaps a little extravagant,

Saviour nonetheless,

This is to you,



My humble abode,

My seamless sanctuary,

My irrefutable escape,

My safe haven.

- DG

To love yourself,

The way I love you,

I guess you’ll have to,

Find these pieces of my heart,

That are scattered,

Somewhere within yours.

- DG

Written in response to and inspired by this post by @catherinestephens =’)

Weeping willow leaves trails of sorrow

in the sands beneath its roots

Branches and twigs bend and brush

tears of dreamers into sap and shoots

By the river´s shore it bows its crown

and deepens its frown on this world -

So sing to me while you still can,

Of restless clouds on mountain´s crest,

Of forests and fields and valleys deep,

Of fireflies and summer nights

all washed away in senseless flight -

And grieve for me,

my willow tree.

Painting by: Claude Monet, Weeping Willow, 1918-19

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Maybe some people just aren’t meant to be in our lives forever. Maybe some people are just passing through. It’s like some people just come through our lives to bring us something: a gift, a blessing, a lesson we need to learn. And that’s why they’re here. You’ll have that gift forever.
—  Danielle Steel
The Well

The dogs are behind me. I can hear them baying in the trees, barking and howling as the scent of my blood drives them wild. They’re close now, too close, and I curse myself for a fool for coming out in broad daylight.
I know better.
The well is abandoned, covered in flowering vine and rotting with mold. I slip under the cover and scramble down, my fingernails digging into the soft rock, the crumbling sides. Stupid of me. I shouldn’t have come back here, not so directly. It makes it dangerous, dangerous for later, dangerous for the others. But I couldn’t run anymore, not on my bad leg.
The smell of damp and mold rises around me, and I touch the root winding out of the wall and drop. I land on my bad leg, solidly, and the scream in my throat isn’t all pain. I hate this place. I hate it, but I have to come back. It’s the only refuge we have.
Ivy has spilled down through the cracked stones, and it covers the door at the bottom. I push it aside, tucking it behind a root like a curtain as I unlatch the door and slip inside. The dogs have reached the well overhead, and their masters are screaming at them for stopping here. No runaway in his right mind would climb down a well, and they can’t see me, even when they throw the cover off and shine their lanterns down. The ivy falls over the door again, and I lean against it. Listening. Listening to them curse and swear, listening to their anger at losing me. It’s been a long time since I was face to face with any of them, but I remember their faces. Every single one of them. They’re branded into my nightmares for the rest of time, until I die.
I leave when the dogs are quiet. The tunnels beneath this forest are old, halls that were buried by time and by the trees, stone passages with ceilings of tree roots. No one else knows about them. Only us. The Runaways. The children who were supposed to be slaves. The forest protects us now, the forest, and these old ruins. They’re our saviors, our protectors, and much as I hate the damp and the dark and the tomblike air of these tunnels, they are my home.
The younglings are waiting for me when I come in. We stay in an old hall, our blankets spread on the same floor that courtiers, royalty, used to walk. Only their ghosts wander here now, and they don’t mind us.
Yeshi is the first to come running. She’s only four. I rescued her from a mine where they were using her to dig in places a full grown man couldn’t have reached. And wouldn’t have dared go. Her hair is white now, white and smudged with the dirt and the grim of the tunnels, the mold that grows on our walls, but she can smile again. So can the others. They chatter and laugh when I come in, as if they live in paradise, as if these dank, ugly tunnels were the gates of heaven itself.
But no one is beating on them. No hates them, no one whips them. No one curses them. So maybe, in some ways, it is heaven.

I hope that you start letting yourself feel the things that you feel. That you stop denying them, rationalizing them, locking them up in the extra trunk in the attic that nobody ever visits anymore. I hope that you don’t only visit the dangerous parts of yourself at nighttime and condition those things so that they only feel like they’re worth acknowledging in the dark. I hope that you trust when your body says that this is wrong, wrong, wrong. I hope that you listen when your heart speeds up in the heart attack way, not the butterflies way. I hope you stop repressing the bad memories and in turn, start remembering the good ones. I hope that you don’t hide from the darkness under fluorescent lights. I hope you find a way to live with the version of you that’s growing instead of wishing for the version of you that used to exist. Yeah. I really hope you stop doing that.
—  L.A.L. || Letters to You and Reminders to Self