☁️ 𝑅𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓶 𝓣𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽

"And if a man dies
with no wounds on his body
but a war inside his head
did he really die by his own hand,
or was he murdered by everything he couldn't say?"

We are so quick to call it weakness.
To name it choice as if silence were a weapon he picked up willingly.
But what if the silence picked him?

What if the words he couldn't speak grew teeth inside him,
gnawing at the walls of his chest until there was nothing left
but a hollow where a heart used to be?

The body lies.
It stays whole while the soul unravels.
It keeps breathing while the spirit forgets how.
And we we look at the unmarked skin and say,
"He seemed fine."

But fine is a costume.
Fine is the mask we wear when the war inside is too loud to name.
And some wars don't leave scars they leave absences.
A light that went out slowly.
A voice that learned, over years, that no one was listening.

So no
he didn't die by his own hand.
He was killed by a world that didn't ask.
By a silence that became a sentence.
By everything he swallowed because there was no one to receive it.

We call it suicide.
But maybe it's just the body finally telling the truth
that the mouth never could.

And the tragedy isn't the death
it's that he died so quietly,
so invisibly,
that even in passing,
no one heard the war.

---

This is for every soul who fought alone.
For every unspoken word that became a grave.
And for those left behind, wondering:

Did I not ask the right questions?
Did I not stay long enough?
Or was I already gone
long before my body knew how to follow?

✍LostBoy

             ➣ @My_thought18

The End of One Beginning

I am happy today.

I don't know about tomorrow but today, I am happy.
For this moment, I’ve forgotten what I’ve been through.
The weight feels lighter. The sky feels nearer.
And I wish this feeling would never end.

I’m on my way to turning my life into something that would make everyone proud.
Maybe even myself.
So today, I’m happy and I’m asking for your support.
Not for money or advice just your prayers.
Just remember me.
That’s all.

Maybe I’m finally able to find myself.
I guess that’s what this feeling is
not just happiness, but the quiet return of someone I thought was lost.

So here’s to today.
To this breath.
To this hope.
And to the road ahead wherever it leads.

And it’s just the beginning.
Just wish me luck.
Wish me strength.
That’s all I want.

Pray for me.
Remember me.
And if you’ve ever been lost, too
I’m praying for you also.

---

Maybe this is the end.
I may not write or post anything here. Or maybe I will. I don't know.
But for now I'm finished. Just like that. I'm done.

It’s been so many years since I lost myself.
Since I tried to become anybody else.
God knows how tired I am. How many times I tried.
How many times I failed again and again.
How many times I died. How many times I stood back up.

But today it's all done.

This is it.
It’s been so long.
I'm done for now.

Goodbye, everyone.

You’ve been my best listener.
My only someone who could hear whatever I said.
It’s been good to have you. It’s been the best.

I’m not leaving you
I’m just hardly turning my life in a way I couldn’t even believe.

I was lost.
I was dead.
I was there and never belonged.
I was broken. Mentally.

It’s whole —
The Lost Boy.
This whole time.

✍️ LostBoy / Hol

➣ @My_thought18

🥀
       ➣ @My_thought18

The Weight Of Her Light •

It makes me cry so hard
so deep, so heavy
when I see my mother struggling.

It kills me.

Because she is the one who carried me before I could walk.
She is the one who went without so I could have.
She is the one whose hands never stopped moving,
whose back never stopped bending,
whose heart never stopped hoping
even when hope was a luxury she couldn't afford.

She is not just human to me.
Not just a mother.
I look at her and see poetry
not written, but drawn in the reflection of her face,
like a bright mirror holding all the light she's given.

And now, here I am.
Living. Breathing. Existing.
While she carries the weight of the world in her silence.

It kills me
because I am supposed to be her rest.
Her reward.
The reason she kept going through all the nights she cried alone.

But instead,
I watch her struggle like a slow motion storm
and I stand there, helpless, holding nothing but tears I can't let her see.

She doesn't know I notice.
She doesn't know I count every sigh she tries to hide,
every pause before she says "I'm fine,"
every time she chooses hunger so I don't have to.

And yet
here I am.
Living.

Not thriving. Not giving back. Not lifting her load.
Just… living.

And that's the part that breaks me most.
Not the struggle itself
but the distance between her pain and my powerlessness.

How do you carry the woman who carried you?
How do you become the shelter for the one who was your sky?

I don't have the answer yet.
But I know this:

One day
I will make her hands rest.
I will make her back straight.
I will make her heart know, finally,
that her struggle was not wasted.

Because she raised someone who sees her.
Someone who feels her.
Someone who will spend the rest of his life
trying to be worthy of all she gave.

That day is not here yet.
But I carry it in my chest like a flame.

And until then
I cry.
I feel.
I stay close.

And I never stop trying
to become the man she already believes I am.

#A_Letter_For_You_Even_If_U_Cant_Read_It .

✍ LostBoy


             ➣ @My_thought18

The Life That Costs Everything.

There are days when living comes easy.

When the sun feels like a blessing and not just another morning you have to get through. When your feet move without thinking, when you find yourself smiling before you've even decided to be happy.

And then there are days like this.

Days when every breath feels like lifting a stone. When your hands are heavy not with surrender, but with the weight of everything you're still carrying. When the only reason you're still standing is because falling would feel too much like giving up.

Those are the lives that matter.

Not the ones that float.
Not the ones that come free.
The ones you have to fight for.

The hard-fought ones.
The been-through-hell ones.
The ones you offer to the world with hands that are still shaking from the storm.

You've wrestled with the dark.
You've sat in rooms where hope felt like a rumor.
You've carried grief in your chest like a second heartbeat, and still—still—you reached for light.

Not because it was easy.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.

Living isn't pretty when it's real.
It's scarred. It's honest. It's the sound of someone who has every reason to stop and keeps going anyway.

So bring your storm-tossed self.
Bring your torn-sail, story-to-tell life.

Bring the one that cost you something.

Because the world, the one that watched you wrestle, that sat with you in the dark, that never left even when you couldn't feel that world doesn't want your perfect life.

It wants this.

The hard-fought one.
The one that comes from the place where your voice cracks and your hands tremble and you're not sure you believe in tomorrow but you face it anyway.

That life?

That one changes things.

Not because it fixes everything.
Because it proves something in you is still alive enough to try.

And maybe—just maybe—that's what it means to be human.

Not certainty.
Not answers.
Not the absence of pain.

Just the stubborn, sacred choice to keep living until your soul catches up with the life you're building.

So live it.

The hard-fought one.
The been-through-hell one.

Live it until it becomes true.
Or live it just because you need to say something in the direction of hope.

Either way—live.

Your life has already been witnessed.


✍LostBoy

             ➣ @My_thought18

..
  ➣ @My_thought18

I wish the world
was easier on you.

You carry more
than people realize.

You keep going
even when you’re tired.
You keep trying
even when things feel heavy.

I just hope
one day life
softens a little,

the way you deserved
all along.

- -
✍ SirMikee

             ➣ @My_thought18

      ➣ @My_thought18

        ➣ @My_thought18

and maybe we feel empty
because we leave pieces of ourselves
in everything we love.

in the people we care for,

in the places we stayed too long,

in the dreams we gave our best to.

we don’t walk away whole.

we scatter parts of our heart
in every story we lived.

and sometimes the emptiness
isn’t weakness,
it’s the space left behind
by everything
we truly gave.

- - -

✍ SirMikee

             ➣ @My_thought18