08:20 | Friday, 2 February.
Inside the attic of my memories I am nothing more than the forgotten relics. A sculpture of misshapen clay shaped by the echoes of the whispered doubts.
Lens of the stained glass windows of my perception can disperse me. My skin a prism was capturing the splintering light of societal norm.
While, in the secret alcove of solitude, I am more than the aggregate of my perceived imperfections. I am the mural of resilience, and every cracked shingle is a living proof of my might.
For in the memoir of existence, beauty is not a still life. However, a cosmic dance of error, where authenticity is an all-controlling force.
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
Unspoken Whispers Beneath Every Sighs
Poesia"𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑" Every written pieces in this book conveys all the whispers in my head that seems to linger in me and wanted to be free. Writing gives myself a comfort it seeks to feel, that's why I always put my...
