fireblast_

www.instagram.com/fireblast690/

I write so I remember to forget you.

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  • fireblast_ 6h

    Maybe I wasn't meant to save the world.
    or my friend's puppy dying of cancer.
    or my mother's old clothes hanging in a squared box. I can't forget, the dead keep on living in me. I age with them, like staring at bruised silhouettes writing their own demise.

    I'm bleeding through this skin, tongue tied
    I'm always going back to the places where people are starved for love, because my hands don't know how to hold the right people.

    Maybe I wasn't meant to save myself either,
    everything sprawled out of my gaze.
    I've gone mad with longing, yearning;
    for a brighter flame that licks my blood.
    A place where when I talk, I don't hear someone else.

    I'm at war with who I could've been,
    being choked by invisible shadow of someone's hand.

    I ran out of paper writing my grief, yet there's always clacking of keys upstairs like something I could never say is trying to write itself.

    ©fireblast_

  • fireblast_ 8w

    Not every feeling is a poem

    but I've never found a better way to communicate.

    I'm always missing; a frame without a picture, an outline of a dead body at a crime scene.

    I'm always leaving without a goodbye,

    my back always turned from your face.

    You call me and say 'you see me', leaping off the tall buildings

    but your connection is always broken before the words are spoken.

    @fireblast_

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    You call me and say 'you see me',
    leaping off the tall buildings

    but your connection is always broken
    before the words are spoken.

  • fireblast_ 14w

    Artists have the constant need to communicate something unexplainable. To have people who know them through their characters, to look at life through their eyes, to express things that people are terrified of explaining. They have this constant urge to expose their wounds or to conceal them. They paint a language of their own emotions, no matter how trivial or empty, they make silence as if it could be spoken. They make every tragedy sound like poetry. They want to be heard but will leave as soon as you learn the sound of their voice. Every art is the proof that it's not about the things they see but what they feel inside.

    ©fireblast_

  • fireblast_ 17w

    S O C I A L A N X I E T Y

    I haven't done anything wrong, but I'm guilty. I'm guilty of breathing, of taking extra space at the bus station, of eating more than others at the family gathering, I'm guilty of picking the prettiest dress and still feeling insecure when a group of more pretty girls shows up. I can't stop thinking that I know a lot about science and psychology, but I'll forever remain a dumb kid who seems to forget every word of her mother language when someone asks her a question. I'm guilty for reaching college a little late and having everyone's eyes fixed on me when I enter, I'm guilty for feeling that every whisper is about me. I'm guilty for watching people cry and not having enough courage to hold their hands or hug them tightly. I'm guilty for feeling that everything I create is incomplete.

    Some nights I can't stop thinking that nobody knows my favourite colour or that one song that always makes me cry. Maybe there's no way out, but I don't know what to do with the hunger in my eyes for things my body wouldn't allow me to be in love with. To have someone who asks the questions, and I answer, unapologetically, recklessly. To write and be written about.

    ©fireblast_

  • fireblast_ 24w

    Let someone unravel you

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    Peel off your facade.
    Show me your darkness.
    Let me touch those wounds
    that turned into scars.
    Show me the real you,
    so that I know from where
    I have to start loving you.

    ~ f i r e b l a s t

  • fireblast_ 26w

    - ������ ���������� ������ �������� ������������ �������� ����������; �������� ���� �������������� ������ ������������ �������� ���� ���� ������ ����.

    @������������������_

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    I'm tragically old, and my arms are not enough to hold you. I sit at the breakfast table and tell you about the roses that died last November, tell you about the quiet of the night because you are always sleeping when I'm awake. You ask about the receipts I threw away because I thought you didn't need them. I thought maybe a piece of paper has more value than my vague emotions, so I wrote, and wrote. I wrote you better in my poems than you were. I filled the entire room with metaphors I did not mean to write. You hold my diary and read the only line in which you cannot comprehend the intensity of my pain, you put it back and ask about the scars on my wrist and say; how could paper cuts be so lethal? 

    ©fireblast_

  • fireblast_ 28w

    Nobody knows about my rage, but maybe concealment is a worthy trait of kind people with bruised hands longing to touch something that denies to hurt them.And you my love, you touch my wounds with such gentleness, I forget to ache.

    ©fireblast_

  • fireblast_ 29w

    D E P R E S S I O N

    When someone asks me a question, I'm afraid to say too much or nothing at all. What if I give away all the necessary information that protects me from getting hurt or what if the answer is too limited that it doesn't satisfy anyone? But why is it my responsibility to do their work for them, to please them, to satisfy them or put their mind at ease?

    I'm 20 summers old, yet all my life, I was only loved by suppressing my needs, to show no anger and remorse, to be a caregiver, to be loved in return.

    My fingers looked like dripping blood as if I was slaughtering my past when I cut my hair with a steak knife at the rest stop, pounding my head at the steering wheel, yelling at empty bus stops and hollering in the broad daylight at the pale cerulean sky, asking: how does it end? My house tastes like gun smoke; it's as if I'm shot, but there are no wounds.

    I'm 20 summers old, and I've only identified sorrow by feeling what it is not.

    My hands feel like splintered glass of your broken window which you never opened, edges too sharp yet too keen to hurt anyone who isn't you. During my last panic attack, I drove to the nearest cemetery and sobbed in my car whose windows never came down. Seeing the empty space beside me where you used to sit and read me happy poems, I dug my nails into my skin feeling as if somehow I could hold something too tight, it would hurt me less.

    I'm 20 summers old, yet some days all 20 lipstick shades on my desk look the same.

    Every night I lie on the floor and feel like a distant stranger aching for someone familiar to hold me before I start to scream. Every 12:20 am my phone chimes, and I say "I love you in all my favorite 20 poems", and most of the time I don't remember any of them. My head spins as if I'm losing control, yet when you ask me if I'm okay? I say you set everything in motion, I don't want you to leave me alone, but most nights I don't mean it. All day long I keep chanting "I'm sorry" but I don't know what for?

    I'm 20 summers old, and some days I don't get why there are bright lights for empty lanes.

    ©fireblast_

  • fireblast_ 29w

    R E M E M B R A N C E

    Remembrance is like an echo, the empty house
    with shattered windows and locked doors where
    everything you lost is what you've once known/

    Remembrance is a seed being sown by a stranger
    in your rear backyard whose name you don't
    forget until someone mentions it/

    Remembrance is my mothers grief thumping inside
    her four walled room where tears is the price
    you pay to love someone who doesn't love you back/

    Remembrance is smoke drifting from spiling
    ashtrays when you talk about wanting things
    so desperately that you even forget you love them/

    Remembrance is moving forward yet being lost in
    distance stretching behind you; a place where even
    In forgetting you remember them/

    Remembrance is being dead yet waking up
    every day to carry your own ashes to ignite.

    ©fireblast_

  • fireblast_ 30w

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