Introspection
Conversations From Last Night
I exchange my behaviors and traits
as if they are as the clothes I wear
interchangeable traits with each person I associate with
unknown to my true identity, the way I write
is even a stranger to me- cursive one line then print the next
similar to a sponge i tend to soak up everything
and yet my confidence only fills me based on what
others words describe me as
and to say, I would rather be hungry than filled with
their validation
that is the only thing I crave.
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- this is a poem from one of my collections called, “Conversations From Last Night”. I will publish more from this collection soon ! :)
About the Creator
Harley Pennington
Aspiring writer :)
Instagram: Harleyy.pennington
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtisa day ago in Humans
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