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Poetry
Nostalgia is a gentle haze,
A soft and fading, golden maze,
Where time itself begins to blur,
And memory’s touch is sweet and pure.
It whispers through the autumn leaves,
In every laugh and every breeze,
A glimpse of youth, a fleeting smile,
A world that seemed to last a while.
The streets we walked, the songs we sang,
The echoes of the joy they bring,
Each moment held in fragile glass,
A treasure that we cannot pass.
The faces of those long gone by,
Their voices still beneath the sky,
They live in shadows, soft and deep,
In dreams we chase but cannot keep.
Oh, how the heart longs to return,
To places where the candles burn,
Where laughter bloomed and love was new,
Where everything was pure and true.
But time moves on, and days decay,
The past is dust, and yet we stay,
Tangled in those days gone by,
Chasing what we cannot buy.
Nostalgia, like a gentle friend,
Reminds us that we must transcend,
For though we yearn for what’s behind,
The present holds what’s yet to find.
Nostalgia is a gentle haze,
A soft and fading, golden maze,
Where time itself begins to blur,
And memory’s touch is sweet and pure.
It whispers through the autumn leaves,
In every laugh and every breeze,
A glimpse of youth, a fleeting smile,
A world that seemed to last a while.
The streets we walked, the songs we sang,
The echoes of the joy they bring,
Each moment held in fragile glass,
A treasure that we cannot pass.
The faces of those long gone by,
Their voices still beneath the sky,
They live in shadows, soft and deep,
In dreams we chase but cannot keep.
Oh, how the heart longs to return,
To places where the candles burn,
Where laughter bloomed and love was new,
Where everything was pure and true.
But time moves on, and days decay,
The past is dust, and yet we stay,
Tangled in those days gone by,
Chasing what we cannot buy.
Nostalgia, like a gentle friend,
Reminds us that we must transcend,
For though we yearn for what’s behind,
The present holds what’s yet to find.
‘Love is Rebuilding My Life’
By Phillip
There’s irony, hypocrisy, fallacy, a vast ocean of distance to cross. The “saint”, the “sinner”, it’s lunacy, that the ignorant could save the lost.
Creative
ISSUE NO. 22
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2 MIN READ
Methfairytale
By Karie
I’m not belle of the ball, not the very least, but we have something in common, I’m in love with a beast. But the beast is not a person but a drug that I call meth, I’ve been talking to myself for hours, I’m running out of breath.
Creative
ISSUE NO. 22
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1 MIN READ
Art From Inside
By Lanie
Our team was blown away by this beautiful painting.
Creative
ISSUE NO. 21
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1 MIN READ
You Don’t Know Your Worth
By Flame
Don't fear my love, everything’s alright. Don't fear my friends, the future looks bright.
Creative