New poems to make her cry tears of joy Quotes, Status, Photo, Video

Srinivas

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In the joy of Christmas, find the strength of unity and the beauty of diversity, much like the vibrant tapestry of India. ©Srinivas In the joy of Christmas, find the strength of unity and the beauty of diversity, much like the vibrant tapestry of India. #christmas

In the joy of Christmas, find the strength of unity and the beauty of diversity, much like the vibrant tapestry of India. ©Srinivas In the joy of Christmas, find the strength of unity and the beauty of diversity, much like the vibrant tapestry of India. #christmas

Schizology

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To make her happy It's just like the Passenger song Let her go I loved you so much I just wanted you to be happy Even if that meant you being with someone else ©Schizology To make her happy #sacrifice #poem✍🧡🧡💛 #Broken

To make her happy It's just like the Passenger song Let her go I loved you so much I just wanted you to be happy Even if that meant you being with someone else ©Schizology To make her happy #sacrifice #poem✍🧡🧡💛 #Broken

Unfaithful_j_بےوفا

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I will write to you in my story the last joy of life. ©Unfaithful_j_بےوفا #unfaithful_j_بےوفا I will write to you in my story the last joy of life.

I will write to you in my story the last joy of life. ©Unfaithful_j_بےوفا #unfaithful_j_بےوفا I will write to you in my story the last joy of life.

Sup_holster

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White Many speak of their sorrows and scars, And of love, not wanting them. But I, who don't have them either, What I sing is something else altogether. With me, a nightingale sings where Existence itself relinquishes its will. You hear it, ponder, and turn sombre, And my grief grows as well. Ah, if only poetry were More than just ink carved on paper. You had nowhere to go—remember? You open a window, to where Fields of grass are taller than trees; Where the dryad hides herself Beyond the use of mere imagery, And the moon mirrors the stars, Where you dissolve into your own tears ©Sup_holster tears #good_night

White Many speak of their sorrows and scars, And of love, not wanting them. But I, who don't have them either, What I sing is something else altogether. With me, a nightingale sings where Existence itself relinquishes its will. You hear it, ponder, and turn sombre, And my grief grows as well. Ah, if only poetry were More than just ink carved on paper. You had nowhere to go—remember? You open a window, to where Fields of grass are taller than trees; Where the dryad hides herself Beyond the use of mere imagery, And the moon mirrors the stars, Where you dissolve into your own tears ©Sup_holster tears #good_night