باز دستم خورد پورن فرستادم چرا
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"according to user reports"
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not exactly sure what i ever did to anyone but sure i guess
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چقدر مسخره
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در حال حاضر نمایش این پیام پشتیبانی نمیشود.
genuinely so fucking done oh my god fuck this shit
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okay
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after 2 showers 10 cups of coffee and baking one cake i have come to a conclusion
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(in that order)
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I'm gonna continue the channel but in a different fashion.it will just turn into basically what my telegram channel is, My poems and short writings (2-4 paragraphs maybe more) (all English) with occasionally songs.
A small side note, if you also write, DM me and I'll make you an admin (Persian writings are also welcome)our telegram channel (if it ever connects): @paranoidranting
Our talented writers (this list will be updated):#Cherie (me): @TheAngelAnzhel #Rosaria : @timeless_eternity #Requiem#Coffeemugman : @coffeemugman#PSTaheri : @ParsaSTaheri #Am : @paranoididiot
A small side note, if you also write, DM me and I'll make you an admin (Persian writings are also welcome)our telegram channel (if it ever connects): @paranoidranting
Our talented writers (this list will be updated):#Cherie (me): @TheAngelAnzhel #Rosaria : @timeless_eternity #Requiem#Coffeemugman : @coffeemugman#PSTaheri : @ParsaSTaheri #Am : @paranoididiot
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let's also just have two polls actually
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در حال حاضر نمایش این پیام پشتیبانی نمیشود.
در حال حاضر نمایش این پیام پشتیبانی نمیشود.
Beautiful rose gardenAs crimson as the blood in my veinsWith trees high as the skyLotuses as pure as the rainwater that feeds themAnd I burnt it allThe warmth of it comfortingThe smoke smelled of reliefThe crackling of the wood sounded like joyBut, As so does the soul,This fire will die out too.And, As so will the body,The Ashes will settle quietly,And nothing remembers why it burned.I set it all a blaze for in my heart I wanted it soThat snow would be more beautifulOn charred wood and black rosesFor the lotuses would be more pure,With drops of crimson on their petals.
#Cherie
#Cherie
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In my hollow trenchthe dirt clings to my fingertipshe thinks he’s tickling mebut I’m shivering from shining dreadthe drops that count the secondswith their falling on my kneeswhisper something that reminds me ofa kiss that leaves nothing but bitternessthe moonlight casts the shadows of restless thornson the pale eyes that stared at meon this night I would rather diein a frowsty coffin filled with mist
#Am
#Am
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On the back of a bird half-asleep in the sky, I wrote your name
so wherever it flies, the rain that touches its wings will tell your eyes why you once cried into my chest.
To the flowers dozing in the fields of your gaze, breathe a long secret—
not because they don’t know, but because your footsteps fell like blows on their thin, trembling lashes.
And now, in a quiet that feels like a soul finishing its last line,
with a hand made of sunlight, give them one more sunrise.
#Requiem
so wherever it flies, the rain that touches its wings will tell your eyes why you once cried into my chest.
To the flowers dozing in the fields of your gaze, breathe a long secret—
not because they don’t know, but because your footsteps fell like blows on their thin, trembling lashes.
And now, in a quiet that feels like a soul finishing its last line,
with a hand made of sunlight, give them one more sunrise.
#Requiem
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Starting Over.mp3
۰۵:۰۴-۴.۸۱ مگابایت
#Cherie
۰:۴۵
April 20, 2026 at 9:05 PMFrom: ########@#####.irTo: ########@#####.irSubject: Simple poetry assignment
Good evening professor,The following is about Shakespeare's "Winter" from "Love's Labour's Lost." It may sound unrelated initially, but please bear with me:It's been one year and 27 days, on the dot, since I woke up one morning to my mother's wailing over the limp body of our family dog. We lost him to kidney stones after 14 years. By noon, I was digging him a grave, near the house, in a patch of dirt on the side of the road, with a large spoon and a plastic spatula. In the weeks that followed, stray dogs tried digging him up, him and the sheets we wrapped him in, the little bed he used to snore in, and his favorite toy; so we poured concrete over the spot and marked it with an assortment of smooth rocks and pebbles. Ever since, I sometimes leave the house past midnight and sit with him for a while, usually a couple hours. In these hours, I can hear sounds from below the ground, the roars of '401 then, and the newer wave now. During the 12-day war I used to watch missiles fly over as we sat. Slowly, his memory has come to embody everything I have ever lost; everyone I have lost to time, distance, or death, and his grave has become a point in space where boundaries can bend or break. (l'm not sure if you recall, but last semester, first session of the world literature class, you asked us what we've been reading, something to that effect, and I mentioned Antigone. I was obsessed with funeral rites.) On nights when the wind picks up—it can get deafeningly loud here,—I assume he's angry with me somehow, or that he's warning me of something. I stay until he calms down again before I leave.Our last sit-down took place on one such night. He thundered. Beyond us, bells were ringing in the empty square, a vast plot of land forgotten by authorities. They're impossible to see; it's too dark out there. I've never been able to find them, so I picture rusted metal bells tied to short posts, stuck in the ground, maybe leaning on a rock, wrapped in rags of pale blue linen. I was awfully anxious, audibly asking him what it was that he wanted, when a car pulled up, its headlights shining on blades of grass to my right. I hadn't noticed the greenery blooming around. Following the trail of light, I found, upon a tree I had always thought was dying, white flowers blossoming, soft to the touch."Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note," while greasy stranger doth drive away.I don't like romanticizing death. That isn't what this is. I am trying to emphasize how an imaginary sense of meaning pulls us down to reality, and reality retreats into the imagination, closing the circle. In the poem, Shakespeare teases out vague strokes of dread, with the parson's coughing, or the ways being foul, but ultimately falls back on the concrete anchor that is the hooting owl and greasy Joan.All of this may have been excessive, I apologize.
Best, ##### #####.
#Coffeemugman
Good evening professor,The following is about Shakespeare's "Winter" from "Love's Labour's Lost." It may sound unrelated initially, but please bear with me:It's been one year and 27 days, on the dot, since I woke up one morning to my mother's wailing over the limp body of our family dog. We lost him to kidney stones after 14 years. By noon, I was digging him a grave, near the house, in a patch of dirt on the side of the road, with a large spoon and a plastic spatula. In the weeks that followed, stray dogs tried digging him up, him and the sheets we wrapped him in, the little bed he used to snore in, and his favorite toy; so we poured concrete over the spot and marked it with an assortment of smooth rocks and pebbles. Ever since, I sometimes leave the house past midnight and sit with him for a while, usually a couple hours. In these hours, I can hear sounds from below the ground, the roars of '401 then, and the newer wave now. During the 12-day war I used to watch missiles fly over as we sat. Slowly, his memory has come to embody everything I have ever lost; everyone I have lost to time, distance, or death, and his grave has become a point in space where boundaries can bend or break. (l'm not sure if you recall, but last semester, first session of the world literature class, you asked us what we've been reading, something to that effect, and I mentioned Antigone. I was obsessed with funeral rites.) On nights when the wind picks up—it can get deafeningly loud here,—I assume he's angry with me somehow, or that he's warning me of something. I stay until he calms down again before I leave.Our last sit-down took place on one such night. He thundered. Beyond us, bells were ringing in the empty square, a vast plot of land forgotten by authorities. They're impossible to see; it's too dark out there. I've never been able to find them, so I picture rusted metal bells tied to short posts, stuck in the ground, maybe leaning on a rock, wrapped in rags of pale blue linen. I was awfully anxious, audibly asking him what it was that he wanted, when a car pulled up, its headlights shining on blades of grass to my right. I hadn't noticed the greenery blooming around. Following the trail of light, I found, upon a tree I had always thought was dying, white flowers blossoming, soft to the touch."Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note," while greasy stranger doth drive away.I don't like romanticizing death. That isn't what this is. I am trying to emphasize how an imaginary sense of meaning pulls us down to reality, and reality retreats into the imagination, closing the circle. In the poem, Shakespeare teases out vague strokes of dread, with the parson's coughing, or the ways being foul, but ultimately falls back on the concrete anchor that is the hooting owl and greasy Joan.All of this may have been excessive, I apologize.
Best, ##### #####.
#Coffeemugman
۰:۵۴
An already long dead corpse overturnedOnly to reveal heaps of parasites gnawing at what remainsClinging to it, What more could they want?Even the bones are beginning to be picked apartBy every wolf and vulture that passes byEach time the parasites crawl with joyThinking that it might change somethingLike the skeleton is going to grow back it's fleshThey don't realize that, After the last bone is picked apartAs some toy for someone's dogThat then, They won't even have a skeletonTo cling to and call theirs.But, I'm sure that even then,They will sit there and talk of the fleshThat they thought they were promised
#Cherie
#Cherie
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