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Don't worship the sun, for she envies you,
Naked and alone in dark, cold mire.

Don't bow to trees, for they ache
To walk the clay and escape unholy fire.

Don't wish to be birds who have no roofs
Over their heads and search until they die.

Don't seek to be my bride,
Because my treasure never leaves my house

Don't ask for truth human,
When you love living a lie.


"Desire"

Uzithepoet
#poem
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The division within yourself is like ice and fire. Neither has the power to cancel out the other. The ice is too thick to melt, and the flames are too blue to die. They form constant scars all over your insides, one barely tending to the other as they rage on, locked in the walls of your soul. They refuse to coexist, so they agonize your survival as though you don't have enough to pray about.

~ What is balance but an illusion of a tired mind?
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To believe that strength lies in the destruction of darkness is to misunderstand both strength and darkness. Darkness cannot be defeated; it obeys the same laws as light. It exists, it recedes, it returns. 

True strength is the mastery of one’s boundaries—the authority to decide when the inner shadows may speak and when they must fall silent. To command the darkness is not to deny it, but to recognize it as a guest whose presence is meaningful only in its proper season. 

When a person reaches this state, they no longer live in fear of their own depths. They understand that peace is not the absence of shadow, but the discipline of knowing where to place it.
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Why don't your tricks work on me, don't make me feel a single drop of real emotion? You words feel rehearsed and I an audience that doesn't belong on the stage with you.

Why do I see it all like a movie on a big screen, amused yet knowing it is all a performance? Where love is just a light and sound and I, the only one who has seen the ending.


Why don't your words ignite passion but deep suspicion, a constant intuitive prophecy that all your efforts are to win my hand not my heart? You speak of fire but I only see the illusion of a smoke in the air, a learned ache trying to teach the master how to mourn.

Why do I know you lie like I have heard it all before, know each phrase you chant for my poetic ears to fall but found me bored of your efforts? And so I sit, half smiling while you build your dream on a stage I've long dismantled.
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2025/10/22 18:34:20
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