Screams In The Void

I remain.  Inside a world that caves in daily, while others wave it off as a phase. Reaching those within arm’s length is effortless— but where, truly, are your fingertips? This road is solitary. Always was. Always will be. Mirages bloom around me, landscapes that promise nothing and deliver less. I lived. I waited.  For something that may never come— not today, not tomorrow. Spare me your rehearsed wisdom, your sugar-coated faith,  your tender lies. I drift at the core of disillusion. Here, hell is not symbolism.  It is geography. And who cares?  No one. Insomnia. Anguish. Perdition. I do not feel pain on the skin— I feel it where language fails. Everything here is invisible, and no one looks long enough to see. I fill pages with questions. They multiply. They mock me. I look left. I look right. They are here. They are there. They are nowhere. If I scream today, who hears? If I bleed today, who stops it? If I die today, they will cry. Because tears repla...

I miss nothing. No one. Longing is translucent—I ask myself where it went, how it would ever fill my chest if it still existed. Yesterday I died, and what remains is a void: no touch, no scent, no color, no glow. Only silence. I miss nothing. No one. They were all there. Every one of them. And from above I watched their souls, their smiles, from a plane stitched into reality itself. That was where I stood. Those people had never seen each other, never spoken, never existed to one another before the moment I bound them together. I connected life to life, turned strangers into acquaintances, acquaintances into friends, friends into family. I miss nothing. No one. Yet like an old film reel, life runs through my eyes, carrying memories of something that may have existed only for me. Where would they be if not there? I laid every stone of that path. Today, I no longer know how to walk it back—nor return to it at all. I miss nothing. No one. I watched as if they were all celebrating th...

Uncertainty is haunting me again. Maybe it never left. Just dormant. Just buried. Like a recurring nightmare that comes back every other night. Just another chapter of fear in a book with crumpled pages. And everyone is gone. One by one. Slowly. And they keep leaving. What solitude creates is a hardened callus of rancor. Rage turned inward. Inexpressive. Untouchable. Immortal. Memories don’t heal—they only numb. Brief flashes of what once pretended to be family, friends, purpose. All of it now reduced to a void inside me, enduring as long as I keep breathing. For some reason, life still insists on me breathing. Or—enough—there is no fucking reason at all. It’s just the fact of being here. Drag yourself through another year. Drag yourself through another dream that will dry up like everything else around you. Poetry? No. Not even close. This is testimony.  Poetry is fiction. Self-deception. A bitter aftertaste. None of this is poetry. The knife cuts for real. The skin feels it. It b...

In the end, no one will ever understand — and honestly, they don’t need to. If you can’t understand yourself, why the hell would anyone else? The answers you’re looking for are yours alone. People ask questions without wanting the truth. It’s just intellectual sarcasm. “I miss you. How are you?” You don’t actually want to know, brother. You don’t fucking care. Everyone is armed to the teeth, ready to tell you what’s “right,” ready to crucify you. And if you regret something, tears don’t buy forgiveness. They point fingers — “I hope you learn from this.” I’m halfway through my life; I don’t need to “learn” anything from someone who decides to kick me in the back. I need to strike back and show you that you didn’t win. But then what? No one wins, no one loses. I believe what I say because I say what I believe. People want reactions, signs, clues, reasons. Reasons drown my soul — do you see that? No. Impossible. So don’t go searching for what you’re not capable of accepting. ...

This is a long night — one of those that refuse to end before the sun returns. And in these sleepless, endless hours, I find no answers — because there are none. It’s in these hollow stretches of time, while I question my desperate attempts at happiness, that I lose myself the most, fighting against the borrowed theories of joy I hear around me. My head weighs a thousand tons, and inside me, a void — vast, unfillable. And in some strange, senseless way, I close my eyes, trying to understand the reasons life gives me — if such reasons even exist. I know this space will never be complete, never whole — like a puzzle missing its final piece, the single fragment that would reveal everything, and bring an end. My hopes drift aimlessly, day after day. I ache for the end of this waiting — for all the questions without a period, for the moment when life would prove itself worthwhile, and meaning would finally appear. My dream. I feel as though I have found an oasis. From afar, I watched the mo...

Simple. I count the days I still see you  as if they were borrowed seconds from a dream I was never meant to wake from. Like the rain that falls not to nourish— but to remind you the sky is still capable of weeping. The memories we share  linger like the final breaths  of something already dying— a future too blurred to name,  a present fading,  and a past more real  than either of us ever were. Letting you go is slow death. Loosening my grip on your fingers  for the last time,  watching you vanish  back into that distant city— and knowing I am not allowed  to follow. What else do you want  from a heart caving in on itself,  from a soul that has learned  how to scream without making a sound? The goodbyes grow colder. The memories turn foggy. The bonds unravel. The paths dissolve into wind. Would you even try to follow me now? After all the times I left the door open  and you stepped through like a stranger? ...

When the winds rise, they carry the cold like curses.  Seeds left thirsty rot in silence.  A crooked smile — always a lie. Perfection is just the moment before collapse.  Love poured in violent floods spoils the tenderness. Sunlight? A slow-burning death beneath the skin. If I don’t lie, someone will — and worse.  Doubt comes like a convoy, crushing the will to conquer. To feel nothing is to be already buried.  Without trust, I’ll never carve my name into forever. To give freely is to bleed later.  One day I stand on skulls, the next I’m swallowed by the dirt. Lights that shine too brightly scorch the eyes until they darken. All wounds rot into scars, and none of them forget.  My words mean nothing — you don’t hear my soul. If I can’t believe, I exist without dreams. My fears don’t kill, but they shackle every step. Love without respect is a slow death, bloated by ego. Ignore my cries — you erase my worth.  Hold a rose too tightly, and the ...

A razor-thin edge between fleeting joy and relentless torment— where peace detaches from thought,  and drags me back into a choking thread of despair. It pulls me under, into sleepless nights,  where distant echoes churn inside my skull, denying me rest, denying me repair. There is no cure for this condition. I’m lost— marooned in a mind that tears itself apart. My body crumbles, my mind collapses, and I toss the dice, begging for a reason to breathe again. When I say I won’t write about love inspired,  it’s because love dulls the blade of my fear,  and when that blade is dulled,  the words die with it. I am unstable, delicate— a crystal on the edge of shattering. The spears come daily,  piercing deeper each time, and the wounds no longer remember how to close. When does it end? It’s a slow suffocation, drifting with no harbor to hold me.  I don’t care if these words are ugly, if they disturb you, if they push you away—they aren’t for you. Th...

Fool that I was — to believe there could ever be an end. There is no end. Only repetition, disguised as progress. Only pain, reshaped, refined, and returned. I underestimated the labyrinth —its corridors rebuild themselves in stronger, crueler forms. I am not walking through it —I am the one buried alive inside it. Inside myself. The idea that life could become perfect — or even still — was a delusion for the naive. Utopia is the lie we tell children. People drown themselves in pills and pretty distractions, fooling their minds into thinking they’ve been saved —but salvation died the moment they stopped searching inside. I won’t pretend. I won’t lie to myself. I won’t be sedated by false promises. I choose the sharpness of truth. I choose the burn of realization. There is no cure. There is no escape. Life is a pendulum — a savage rhythm of agony and illusion. It swings between flowered lies and blood-soaked truths. Joy is a trick — a brief echo, a flicker, a performance. Pain is the co...