Yes!
Poet ππ Apocalypse
@psycherelics
EnchantΓ©
Poet ππ Apocalypse (English)
Welcome to the world of Poet ππ Apocalypse, a mesmerizing Telegram channel that brings together poetry and the art of storytelling in a unique and thought-provoking way. Led by the talented poet behind the username 'psycherelics', this channel is a haven for those who appreciate the beauty of words and the power of imagination.
Who is 'psycherelics'? A mysterious wordsmith who weaves intricate tales of apocalypse, love, and everything in between. Their poetic style is captivating, evoking emotions and sparking introspection with every verse.
What is 'Poet ππ Apocalypse'? It is a virtual sanctuary where poetry enthusiasts can come together to explore the depths of human experience through the lens of apocalypse. Each piece of poetry shared on this channel is a journey into the unknown, a reflection on the fragility of life and the resilience of the human spirit.
EnchantΓ©. As soon as you step into the world of Poet ππ Apocalypse, you will be enchanted by the lyrical prowess of 'psycherelics' and their ability to transport you to realms beyond your wildest dreams. Whether you seek solace in the written word or inspiration for your own creative endeavors, this channel is sure to leave you spellbound.
Join us on this poetic odyssey and let the words of 'psycherelics' guide you through the apocalypse and back. Embrace the beauty of language, the power of storytelling, and the magic of poetry on Poet ππ Apocalypse. Your journey awaits.
Poet ππ Apocalypse
15 Dec, 13:37
Now, I am a hand,
an outstretched hand,
an empty hand,
open, white, and cold.
What are the violets for,
and what is life forβif anything?
Now, I am eyes,
eyes without flames
that stretch blank
in the bleak light.
What are the jasmines for,
and what is life forβif anything?
And what about the suns?
And the rustling leaves,
and the flickering candles,
and the harp strings,
and the crystal dreams,
and the raised arms,
and the clenched teeth,
and the cries of the soul,
and the tears from the veins?
I do not know, I do not know.
I have burned my forehead,
I have burned my innocence,
the highest hope,
the deepest intimacy.
I have burned my bread,
and I have burned my yield,
I have burned my soil,
and I have burned my water.
And now, what?
Yes... the pages,
these empty pages.
an outstretched hand,
an empty hand,
open, white, and cold.
What are the violets for,
and what is life forβif anything?
Now, I am eyes,
eyes without flames
that stretch blank
in the bleak light.
What are the jasmines for,
and what is life forβif anything?
And what about the suns?
And the rustling leaves,
and the flickering candles,
and the harp strings,
and the crystal dreams,
and the raised arms,
and the clenched teeth,
and the cries of the soul,
and the tears from the veins?
I do not know, I do not know.
I have burned my forehead,
I have burned my innocence,
the highest hope,
the deepest intimacy.
I have burned my bread,
and I have burned my yield,
I have burned my soil,
and I have burned my water.
And now, what?
Yes... the pages,
these empty pages.
Poet ππ Apocalypse
09 Dec, 19:22
A narrow trail through the shrubs,
hushed,
lonelyβ
is it dangerous?
It clings to the edgeβ
the edge of what?
It ends at a beach,
near shimmering
kisses of the sea,
in a place unknownβ
a place I fear?
White, white is the sand,
green is the green,
the air so still,
and Iβ
am I lost?
Wandering through the green,
tracing that clearingβthis trail,
warm, lonely, green, still. Still,
is it dangerous?
hushed,
lonelyβ
is it dangerous?
It clings to the edgeβ
the edge of what?
It ends at a beach,
near shimmering
kisses of the sea,
in a place unknownβ
a place I fear?
White, white is the sand,
green is the green,
the air so still,
and Iβ
am I lost?
Wandering through the green,
tracing that clearingβthis trail,
warm, lonely, green, still. Still,
is it dangerous?
Poet ππ Apocalypse
06 Nov, 19:52
I no longer live in vain,
For Iβve already written
A poem.
And lifeβwhat is life, even?
To lend someone else
A hand?
No, sadly, not that.
But just to write,
To write a poem well.
For Iβve already written
A poem.
And lifeβwhat is life, even?
To lend someone else
A hand?
No, sadly, not that.
But just to write,
To write a poem well.
Poet ππ Apocalypse
27 Oct, 21:13
Nothing of what I am belongs to me.
If I exist in what I know of myself,
Anything that I overcome,
Will soon overcome me.
Nothing of what I am interests me.
If there is, within my heart,
Any fervent feeling,
It will be a fervor in vain.
Nothing of what I am will I ever be.
I dream, and in my being,
Only a dream exists of what I may attain,
Only I know I will never attain it.
If I exist in what I know of myself,
Anything that I overcome,
Will soon overcome me.
Nothing of what I am interests me.
If there is, within my heart,
Any fervent feeling,
It will be a fervor in vain.
Nothing of what I am will I ever be.
I dream, and in my being,
Only a dream exists of what I may attain,
Only I know I will never attain it.
Poet ππ Apocalypse
22 Oct, 02:20
Zara zΓ’mbeΘte zΓ’nei
ZΓ’mbind zΔreΘte zorii zilei
ZΓ’na zdrobeΘte zarea
ZdrobitΔ-i zara zΔrind zarea
β Helene
ZΓ’mbind zΔreΘte zorii zilei
ZΓ’na zdrobeΘte zarea
ZdrobitΔ-i zara zΔrind zarea
β Helene
Poet ππ Apocalypse
22 Oct, 02:12
It's so unfair I never wrote anything related to cinnamon
Poet ππ Apocalypse
17 Oct, 16:08
She loves to hear me tell stories. In my stories, I always subtly hint that I love her very much.
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