disquiet_silhouette

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Silhouette striving to know her permanence.

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  • disquiet_silhouette 73w

    To the eyes that read these words

    Sometimes I find this sudden urge within me
    To know if the eyes I am looking into
    Has any pain hidden in them.
    It feels like an eternity has passed
    Before I knew nothing about this tiredness
    Of struggling with my thoughts
    Of coaxing my mind to sketch serene sceneries
    Within which my rueful eyes seek comfort
    And not the dozen scenarios I keep thinking of
    Where I prove I rightfully doubted everything about me.
    I don't want to find comfort,
    By you too knowing what this restlessness means.
    If these breaths have been heavy,
    I hope those were only my breaths,not yours
    If even silence has chosen to be deafening
    Let it be my hand only, within its cold clutch.
    Let these words mean nothing to you,
    Except the voice within me that wants to be silenced.
    I look into your eyes, with a prayer to find
    The peace that eludes me.
    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 73w

    The theatrics to rain

    There is a simpleness
    To the act of raining itself
    Just the clouds letting go
    Of what they've carried for too long
    The theatrics are all borrowed
    The song of the rain, chased
    Is rendered by roofs and trees, drains and fields
    By everything welcoming it.
    The soft evanescent smell
    Is lended by the porous soil
    The thundering and lightning joining in
    By the sky wanting to be seen.

    So much of how things are
    May be forgotten to be anticipated.
    The sky is a sky afterall
    Unless smudged, streaked with the sun's hues
    The trees standoffish,
    Unless waving to a cold breeze.
    And so much of true beauty is lost,
    Unless it becomes much more.
    As the rain falls, I know I've found comfort in it
    The splattering softens, the petrichor becomes distant
    The clouds keep thundering,
    There is a welcome silence within it all.
    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 74w

    Some days are like a knotted ball
    With me as the loose string end to be pulled,
    To be shaped back into coherence.
    I wish anxiety could be painted out empty
    Into calming quotes, or cute sketches
    That you place within your vision strategically.
    But it is an ink
    That jabs and blots your diary
    Too dense, too crude to be shaped into words
    That can grace pages with a beauty.

    But there are these nights
    Where I can breathe the solemnity of silence
    As I watch the moon metamorphosing itself,
    Without asking for acceptance.
    In the darkening shadows,
    Everything steps back slowly
    From what it shows itself to be
    Into the stillness of what it actually is.
    A flame does not remain just a flicker
    The candle doesn't just surrenders itself into burning.
    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 101w

    Midnight eventually spilled its secrets
    For it could read the kindness in moonlight
    Of gently illuminating them with acceptance alone.
    The nightingale's song took a wide flight,
    For it had become too tired of losing its existence
    In the chaos that forever thundered with disapproval.
    The heart undertstood it can't be left forsaken
    By itself, for too long.
    If only words could've bound themselves into stories
    Without scrutinizing if they held some meaning
    If only stories could've read themselves out
    Trusting the ears of wanting to hear them
    If only the heart could've kept reminding itself to trust
    Other hearts as kindreds, even when left misunderstood by few.
    The midnight wouldn't have had to wait to share its misadventures
    In a quietness bred by a nightingale that orphaned its own song.

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    If only the heart could've kept reminding itself to trust
    Other hearts as kindreds, even when left misunderstood by few.
    The midnight wouldn't have had to wait to share its misadventures
    In a quietness bred by a nightingale that orphaned its own song.
    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 103w

    There are 100 ways to wrong someone
    101 ways to tell you didn't intend to do them wrong
    I could have been there for you
    But there is so much more to love
    Than just being in love
    Truth becomes something intended to hurt
    The care becomes an unasked invasion
    But you can't see any of it
    Until you walk back too far
    That you can't find your way back again
    I wished to keep you close
    But I didn't know how to love someone who saw me
    Who chose to see me.
    But couldn't you have tried to stay
    Is it too hard to see someone trying to make amends
    To take the responsibility of what was and what isn't
    Maybe that is all we know how to do best
    To disappoint the ones we love the most
    For what is love if it doesn't crawl its way
    To the place where it hurts the most
    And tries to make it all worth the trouble
    Except that it can't.
    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 114w

    November startles me into admission
    Of who I have strived to be,
    And who I am now.
    All that is human to me
    The flesh and the emotions that outpour,
    Aren't enough to make myself understand
    That I'm allowed to flaw
    Or I can just be without wondering what I've been.
    The winter still has to approach
    But this heart already has accepted
    The callousness it has hardened itself into.
    The warmth is near, I know,
    But what about this November
    That is making me see
    These flames as something that only seek to burn,
    And this skin as something that wants to take the toll.
    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 119w

    Of October and Writing

    I wrote not of any despair
    Except one of not having had the right words
    To structure the restlessness of my heart.
    Maybe the year's end was already upon me
    Maybe it was life's end I was rather contemplating
    That I found myself lending words
    From October's rain.
    It sighed, whispering
    All the tales of romanticism that go uncaptured
    All the prayers of solitude that go unheard
    And I listened, and I understood:
    Words are made to be given to you
    When you really have a chaos to dissipate;
    Words not always have to find you
    The longing to be found again,
    Can be breathed into October's wind.
    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 135w

    What do I know of these roads all serpentine
    These nights that make me sing songs forgotten
    These winds that whistle of moments so quaint to be remembered,
    These hills that ask me to call upon myself,
    Except that I've felt one with them
    When I couldn't trust myself to be.
    One with the universe that spirals into an infinity
    One with everything that has lived, and can live
    Without caring where each breath gone stale is laid.
    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 145w

    What if each day becomes
    A journey to visit unfamiliarity
    What do you choose-
    Remaining stranded in your hesitation
    Where no roads can meet you;
    Or rushing into any lane
    That eases your anxiety
    Of never reaching anywhere?

    What if each person becomes
    A memory you know you'll have to forget
    What do you accept-
    A detachment, a silence
    That lets you be your only disappointment;
    Or an openness, that doesn't make you ache
    Of a fleeting happiness, a familiar pain.

    ©disquiet_silhouette

  • disquiet_silhouette 149w

    Allow yourself to wander enough
    In your thoughts,
    In stories that you want to be yours
    And anxiety becomes your only clarity.
    The day spins through
    Moments you wish to grasp;
    Until the night settles with a wakefulness,
    For you to reproach your drifting.
    But the roving eyes only had desired
    To seek a path they can accept as their own,
    The mind had risked its focus
    To search for truth in the belief it holds.
    And while anxiety initially chides itself
    For taking up the space guarding an identity;
    It stays, and learns a comfort
    In being accepted, when your truth wasn't.
    ©disquiet_silhouette