Telegram channel "Dead pen 🖋️" — @dead_pen_soul

Dead pen 🖋️

8 Oct, 08:39

The Road of Light

There is a path, hidden and quiet,
a road that waits beneath every shadow.
For every step you take towards pretending,
another way, almost invisible, leads you toward the light.
But it only shows itself to those who have known darkness,
those who have felt the weight of sadness and loss,
and who have, somehow, learned to accept it.

It isn’t a path that shines in the bright hours of the day,
or in the safety of what we know.
This road appears only when all else falls away—
in the still, empty moments when you are left alone
with the raw truth of who you are.
The dreams you’ve lost, the hurt you’ve carried,
they lie here, soft echoes in the quiet.

To see this road, you must first fall,
to let the sorrow settle in, to feel its coldness.
You must be brave enough to let go of the image,
to feel your heart ache without hiding from it,
to stand with the truth of yourself.
And when you do, slowly, softly,
a gentle light will begin to rise beneath your feet,
not blinding, but steady and real,
like dawn after a long, endless night.

The road of light is there for you, waiting.
It doesn’t promise easy answers or perfect days.
It’s a path that accepts all of you—
the broken pieces, the scars, the quiet hopes.
It leads to a place where you don’t have to pretend,
where the warmth of the sun touches the heart that has known darkness,
and where, finally, you can rest, whole and true.

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Dead pen 🖋️

6 Oct, 19:54

In the market of voices,
where every word rings out loud,
where silence is rare, like a hidden gem,
is there a mirror that can bring us peace?

Years go by like long, winding roads—
the same stories, the same sights, the same endless search.
But when we meet, in a quiet, shared moment,
it feels like something slips away,
someone we thought we knew
yet can never seem to hold close.

Is she my shadow, or am I her mirror?
She lives in my heart,
a shape made from my own light,
yet I don’t know her name.
She walks beside me like a gentle ghost,
familiar and safe, but just out of reach,
forever near but never mine to touch.

Like the first light of morning,
where each ray wakes up slowly,
where every sleepy eyelid opens in soft quiet,
the sun spills its warmth gently, bit by bit.
And in that gentle light, each tiny speck floats free,
and it feels like someone is slipping away,
fading into the morning glow—
as if each bit of light holds a clue,
not to who they are… but to who I am.

Who is this nameless presence
that moves in step with my own heart,
appearing and vanishing like a memory,
woven into me yet forever just beyond my grasp?

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Dead pen 🖋️

6 Oct, 13:00

Words come out so easily, don’t they?
Like soft whispers, light as air—
but to the one listening,
they can feel like heavy stones.

People throw words without a thought,
without a pause to wonder,
if those words are sharp or soft,
if they might hurt, or heal, or break.

They only see their own feelings,
their own world, their own storms—
never thinking that someone else
is left holding the pieces,
of something shattered by their voice.

It’s easy, too easy for some,
to speak without thinking,
to let words fly free, unkind,
forgetting hearts are fragile,
not made to bear all this weight.

We stand here, quietly gathering
the pieces their words have left,
in a world that speaks so loudly,
but rarely listens, rarely cares.

And so, we build our walls higher,
wrap our hearts in quiet strength,
remembering that kindness,
isn’t something everyone gives,
and gentle words are rare.

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