cyrus k.

[cyrusk]

She loves like somebody

trying to keep a candle alive

inside a storm.

There are bruises in her spirit

that make her reach for love

with shaking hands,

yet she still reaches.

Still gives.

Still softens.

And there is something unbearably tragic

about a woman

who has been handled roughly by life

continuing to love gently anyway.

She deserves a love

that does not study her wounds

like weaknesses.

A love that speaks softly

to the frightened parts of her.

A love kind enough

to let her finally unclench.

Because beneath all the wreckage,

all the exhaustion,

all the nights spent surviving herself,

she is still luminous.

Still worthy of tenderness.

Still the sort of soul

that should have been loved carefully

from the very beginning.

And so I hope,

that such a love,

a love sincere and gentle,

finds her and wraps her whole.

She deserves nothing less.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

She was brilliance without permission,

a mind too deep

for the shallow spaces She was given.

She could create beauty effortlessly,

but when it came to Herself,

She faltered...

as if She had been taught

She was the one thing not worth saving.

She needed love.

Real love.

The kind that stays.

But when it found Her,

She recoiled...

because pain had always been consistent,

and love had always left.

So She trusted the wound

more than the hand trying to heal it.

She carried too much...

too early,

too quietly.

And She learned to endure

instead of live.

God, She just wanted to be normal,

to breathe without weight,

to feel without drowning.

But Her difference was Her brilliance,

and Her brilliance was Her burden.

And it was killing Her softly.

I loved Her.

I love Her still...

with something that does not end

just because we did.

Because love like this

does not belong to time.

It remains,

unchanged,

unclaimed,

unreturned.

I pray for Her still…

that one day

She sees what I saw,

and chooses to stay

for Herself.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

Some people are colder than solitude,

they sit beside you

and still manage to make the silence louder.

She was winter in human form,

and I,

fool that I am,

mistook frostbite for affection.

My heart once knew the shape of home,

knew the rhythm of belonging,

but love…

love made me kneel in a collapsing temple

and call it sacred.

We were broken before we began,

two fractures pretending to be whole,

ceilings caving in

while we hoped otherwise,

through the dust of our own decay.

Yet still,

I stayed.

Because even a dying fire

feels like warmth

to a man who has never known the sun.

But I was never enough to keep her.

She scattered herself into other nights,

let others trace constellations on her skin,

then returned to me,

with hands that smelled like absence,

and told me my pain

was an overreaction.

As though my heart

wasn’t bleeding in plain sight.

As though betrayal

was just another word

for insecurity.

She made me disappear slowly,

not all at once,

no, that would have been mercy...

but piece by piece,

until I became

a shadow

of a memory

she barely acknowledged.

I was only real

when she needed something.

A voice to soothe her storms,

a body to fill her emptiness,

a name she could whisper

when everyone else had left,

a compass navigating her,

through the storm of life.

And when she was full again,

I was discarded like a used prayer,

left unanswered

on the floor of her indifference.

I reached for her,

not desperately,

just enough to say

I'm still here.

But only silence answered me;

like a grave that had already closed.

Now my heart...

it doesn’t break anymore.

It shatters in slow motion,

over and over,

a ritual of quiet destruction

no one ever sees.

I try to gather what’s left,

but the pieces don’t fit,

they remember her shape too well.

And every time I try to heal,

I re-open

what she never intended to close.

There is no escape from this...

not in sleep,

not in noise,

not in the arms of distraction.

Just an endless echo of her absence

carved into everything I am.

And beneath it all,

like a curse I can’t outrun,

a truth I wish was a lie

keeps whispering through the wreckage;

you were never enough.

Not then.

Not now.

Not ever.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

I gave her love

until there was nothing left of me.

She took it

like it was nothing,

then gave everything

to all beaides me.

I held her together

with broken hands,

and mountains on my shoulders,

only to watch her,

walk away..

whole..

just not for me.

I was never unseen,

just easy to forget.

This is where it ends.

no anger,

no fight,

just the quiet realisation

that I meant nothing.

Not a chapter closing,

just the last page

gone.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

My homeland remembers the first breath of freedom,

when kings wrote mercy into clay,

and the world learned the word rights before it learned fear.

But now the sky is smoke,

and joy burns quicker than grief.

I carry two ghosts in one chest,

one born in garden light,

the other carved by flame.

Where poets once spun stars into meaning,

now cries echo like thunder trapped under stone.

They came with sermons of reform

and iron fists behind smiling tongues,

and the streets answered with blood.

Children now learn the alphabet of sirens

and mothers lay flowers on yesterday’s bones.

Some nights my hope is a flicker,

a child’s laughter through a cracked door.

Some nights it is an accusation

echoing against a sky that refuses to stay silent.

I ask the horizon:

Will your dawn rise for us

or will it be another flame?

I feel warmth,

a rose still rooted in burning earth,

and fear,

the wind that carries both ash and promise.

I am split between what was,

and what might yet be.

A contradiction stitched into blood and song.

And though terror sings in the dark,

my love for this land

is the drumbeat of sunrise,

even when the world forgets mercy

and the night wants only to devour it.

-Cyrus K

[cyrusk]

Life has a cruel sense of humour.

It crowns you at noon,

and by dusk

you are a footnote

misprinted in someone else’s memory.

You walk as though the earth tilts for your footsteps,

yet the earth has buried kings

who thought the same.

You are a chapter.

In one book,

you are the hero,

all light and trembling bravery.

In another,

you are the villain,

the quiet arsonist of someone’s heaven,

the hand that struck the match

and called it warmth.

But in most…

you are not even ink.

The universe does not pause

when your heart breaks.

The stars do not dim

because your name is forgotten.

We are sparks

arguing with the sun

about our brightness.

Dust with ambition.

Breath pretending to be permanent.

Stardust maybe..

..but still only dust.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

We carved the earth like butchers with borders for blades,

split one breathing body into pieces

and called the wounds nations.

Now the planet limps,

dragging history behind it like a mass grave.

We kneel before false suns:

skin, currency, control...

each burning hotter than truth,

each demanding sacrifices

that never belong to the powerful.

A mother rocks the air where her child used to be,

cradling absence like a second womb.

Her milk dries into grief.

Her prayers rot unanswered,

stacked beneath the rubble of speeches.

The poor learn hunger the way monks learn silence,

daily, devout, unavoidable.

Their ribs become ladders for desperation,

while the rich choke on abundance

and call it success.

Gold has learned to talk,

and it speaks louder than God.

The news arrives dressed as a prophet

with lipstick on its lies.

Truth is edited, cropped, monetized,

until reality forgets its own face.

They teach us to fight each other

so we never look up

to see who’s pulling the strings.

Children grow old in war zones,

their toys replaced by shrapnel,

their lullabies by drones.

A child’s tear hits the ground harder

than any bomb,

for it lands on innocence.

Soldiers return in boxes

or in pieces that don’t sleep.

Their ghosts march home first,

asking why patriotism smells so much like blood.

Flags wave above corpses

like excuses flapping in the wind.

Cut me open,

and you will find the same red as your enemy.

Peel away race, religion, and rhetoric,

and we are all just fragile meat

dreaming of meaning.

Bone remembers bone.

Pain speaks a universal language.

We are mirrors taught to hate reflections.

Strangers only because we were trained to be.

Different stories, same ending...

dust reclaiming names

that once begged to matter.

The world isn’t divided,

it’s bleeding.

Infected by greed,

fevered with power,

sick enough to call cruelty order.

And the cure is terrifying:

to see each other.

To feel what we’ve numbed.

To stop feeding empires

with the bodies of children.

Until then,

the earth will keep swallowing our lies,

mothers will keep birthing grief,

and history will repeat itself

like a scream

no one wants to hear.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

welcome back🤍

Do you have any tips for writing? whenever I read your writing, its like I'm experiencing it myself for some reason. thank you.

Thank you 🙏🙏🙏

Simply to write from the heart, and close everything else off. Nothing more, nothing less.

[cyrusk]

Time is not a river,

it is a matchstick,

struck once, trembling,

burning while we argue about the dark.

One breath clocks in,

the next might clock out.

Some lives last decades,

others explode into meaning

in the blink between hello and goodbye.

We mortgage our minutes

to tomorrow,

spend today like counterfeit change,

forgetting even gods die

when the flame decides it’s done listening.

A single moment,

nothing on paper,

everything in blood.

A laugh at the table.

A hand held without ceremony.

Eyes meeting long enough

to say I see you

without subtitles.

Yet here we are,

thumbs bowed like worshippers,

faces glowing blue,

eyes buried behind screens,

sitting inches from love

and miles from presence.

Empires crumble louder than kisses,

but it’s the quiet things

that survive the fire.

Grandeur makes noise,

connection makes time kneel.

Remember this:

life doesn’t end dramatically,

it simply stops mid-sentence.

So look up.

Away from screens.

Look in.

Because one second

is all it takes

to lose everything...

or finally be alive.

-Cyrusk K

[cyrusk]

Her silence drips like blood from a glass heart.

I still hear it...

slow, cold, deliberate,

yet unintentional at the same time.

The shadows crawl closer each night,

spinning webs around my ribs,

whispering her name like a curse.

I became the ghost she left behind,

half-alive, half-remembered,

haunting the place

where her eyes once saw me.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

Fuck.

[cyrusk]

The dark is the only room that doesn’t lie.

Light arrives only to perform,

a spotlight with blind spots,

leaving me rehearsing absence.

I am the post never posted,

the story left in drafts,

the ghost in every frame

cropped out by design.

Daylight is reserved for others;

I am archived in silence,

filed under “never spoken of”

"never shown"

and so,

never shone...

So I stay,

a secret with skin,

a rumor that breathes.

The world forgets what it will not see,

but the dark remembers everything.

It holds me like evidence,

chains me like guilt,

and crowns me king of the unseen.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

I am the ship that hurls itself

into the black mouth of the hurricane,

knowing the waves will split my spine,

that the sea will drink my name

like cheap wine spilled on marble.

And yet,

how could I not steer into it?

The storm is a god wearing the mask of a lover,

its beauty is violence dressed in silk,

its thunder speaks to the marrow of my bones.

To sail away would be betrayal,

to survive would be cowardice.

What is love if it does not demand

your drowning?

What is devotion

if it does not taste like salt,

blood,

and the silence beneath the surface?

I would rather be swallowed whole

than spend my life on calm waters,

safe... untouched...

never knowing the ecstasy

of surrendering everything

to something that cannot be tamed.

Yes,

this will unmake me.

Yes,

it will tear the hull of my being apart.

But love is not a harbour.

It is the storm itself.

And if I must be wreckage,

let me be a beautiful wreckage,

splintered wood glistening with lightning,

a name remembered not for surviving,

but for the glory

of choosing the abyss.

-Cyrus K.

[cyrusk]

Do not fall in love

unless you are willing to be erased.

You will lose yourself,

become nothing but smoke and bone,

a shell of the man you once were.

When she leaves,

the fire will not die

it will devour you forever,

an endless hell

where every breath tastes of ash.

And still,

I am grateful.

I love her enough to smile

while I burn.

Because love is not possession.

It is letting her heart walk free.

So I will dance in the flames,

grinning through the agony,

eternally alight with love for her,

knowing I set her free,

as she belongs to another.

-Cyrus K

[thequotespot]

"Sometimes loneliness is not the absence of people, but the absence of someone who truly understands your pain."

[cyrusk]

"Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost".

- Kahlil Gibran (1883 - 1931)

[onthelearningtongue]