Poetry

Being single Wht should I do on my Birthday if hv no friends :( ?

Don’t chase perfection, chase connection. Especially in your marriage, for the sake of Allah.

Relationships don’t need perfection. They need both people to be teachable.

                       #Arxi

When someone falls in love with your petals but not with the roots, they don't know what to do when autumn comes🌸💖💫

If love is war im caught in the cross fire.…
U gat that angel's voice better than a church choir.…
To ask is to get no need for bond sire...
And if i say u ain't the best call me a dumb liar..
Cynical is clinical..….
but mental not physical….
When typical leads to pitiful....
Then spiritual is meaningful...
Put on a knotted tie as we tie the knot...
Say i do a million times ,a week or years to come.…

I see you in the taste of my coffee, in the smoke rising from my cigarette, and in those moments when longing intensifies until it becomes a flame that consumes the distances.

You are so beautiful that the sunset borrows its colors from your eyes, and so magnificent that even the night leans on your presence.

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

By William Shakespear

(from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet)

"It's not love that exhausts you.
It's the uncertainty of being deeply loved, while not knowing where the journey will end." 🌿

(Kejora.in.silence)