Try to use a numbness to plot against the fleeting time.

This signature accompanied me through the most barren years. Like the deepest thorn hidden in my heart, she learned to hold herself tightly and warm herself in the sun.

I curled up in the small whirlpool I made, put a "band-aid" on my small wound, consciously didn't touch it, and felt pain from time to time.

Then, I learned to pretend, to lie, and to smile everywhere.

When I embrace the brocade book and dance on the blade of time, I know that behind the seemingly peaceful is the theory of believing in fate.

In this life, I can only be a seemingly happy person Dewdrops slip from the grass leaves, blend into the soil and are fleeting. The morning light is faint, the old face is red, the injury is scattered, and the smile is safe.

Accustomed to pain, is it growth? Persistence again and again will eventually lead to the disappearance of Fang Fei.

I calmly accepted all the arrangements given to me by fate, gritted my teeth, held back the tears in my eyes and smiled and said goodbye. Fix your emotions and give yourself a confession with "madness", that's all.

Plot against your heart and tear her apart. I've been plotting against everything in the fleeting time, so I can only carefully collect it. Finally, walking numbly, programming and mechanization become the protagonists.

If I disappear, who will desperately look for me?

I have written this sentence countless times in my diary, but I have never asked for it. Unreasonable speculation, thinking, and struggle.

I don't know where to start. I'm used to being invisible. I'm used to hiding in the corner with my mobile phone in KTV. I'm used to talking with my roommate about the latest hairstyle. When a star has a cosmetic scandal, I'm used to watching cartoons with MP5. I'm used to surfing the Internet and tapping the keyboard with my mobile phone in the dead of night ... It's really a terrible thing.

Many times, I also hope to have friends to say a few warm words together, just like a group of people in high school playing crazy. Looking around, it turns out that I have been hiding in my own world for too long.

Like a snail, I carry a heavy shell and slowly bury my head. When the wind blows and the rain blows, I hide in a narrow world.

Looking forward to the grand performance before summer. Sighing how time flies, I am still indulging in my wasted time. Me, shameless.

Then, the season passed. Pure separation. Life will suddenly add so many dikes and responsibilities.

Tired of a wandering and seeing through the scenery, how can I travel?

Time passed, and I saw my cool thin in the broken shadow. I always despair of the whole world in extremely quiet moments. Will it suddenly collapse because of a loss?

Unknown, this is the world.

In fact, some things have gone deep into the bones and gradually become a habit. Those damp and streamers are engraved on the bottom of memory. Miss, it's just a habit.

With the most sincere heart, keep silent about the pain from late summer to late winter. Just quietly writing your own words. Whether it's a small mood or a small sadness, I just persistently record the thoughts of a moment, a moment and a crying night with my mobile phone. Those burning words, those smiling faces with hidden blood, are hollowed out bit by bit.

Words are my best support.

Just be happy, just be happy, and chase snails by bike.

I wrote this myself during the war-torn days in my third year of high school. At that time, I was so determined that I would always be happy, just like the law of the universe.

However, everything collapsed at the end of senior three.

Forgotten, forgotten, forgotten, forgotten, abandoned.

Secretly pale, avoiding the sun, like providence, only a touch of wet moss in the corner is clear. Get, get, get, and finally become a shadow. If you lose your heart, you will no longer expect it. At night, I still sigh at the moon and sky. Only the thick night and the shallow breeze in May can make ripples in the soul.

The male host's faint voice came from the FM radio of the mobile phone, just like Zhang Jingying's painting heart exudes a sly breath and whispers the years. A quick glance at the past years, deep and shallow footprints faithfully record everything. The past is like a sharp knife. As long as you touch it, it will open the wound that can't heal and is still scarlet. My friends always say that I am too stubborn and strong to show a trace of sadness and shed a tear in front of others. Even if you are sad, you will only hide in a corner where the sun can't shine and let it wet. Even though I am humble, I still raise my chin slightly. I am extremely proud, although I have nothing to be proud of.

My youth is not a hymn. She is a poem with no rhyme, no rhythm, no skill, no flowery words, only deep longing and buried dreams. Plain tone, like running water, flows slowly from my heart, waiting, waiting, losing, passing away, flowing in the initial whisper, and flowing in the final despair. But I don't want to continue to be decadent, empty, confused, ruin myself and wait for redemption in hopelessness. When time flows across the straits, hopes are dashed and the road ahead is quiet. This little poem is destined to be mediocre. In the world of mortals, I am just the most mediocre grain of sand, quietly watching the rolling clouds in the sky and listening to Ying Ge's laughter.

The faint scars left by the years are still erased by the years. Face-lifting still looks at the old moon, when will tired eyes shine? Every melody is like telling a kind of mood, with sadness, joy, dreams and sweetness. Then, I learned to refuse and never get hurt again.

Everything is fate.

This is the deepest feeling of my four years in college.

I, a doomed woman, am destined to wander and warm the world.

You, a poetic man, are doomed to be sentimental, and we are doomed to miss the flowering and ending like flowers on the other side.

Lies stick to their vows and cut off hope. Lies are like snowballs, so gorgeous that people forget to breathe. Laugh on your lips and don't tell the truth. Put away your heart and smile at the world.

The world is bustling, all for profit; The world is bustling for profit. The world of mortals is boundless, and people are lonely. In the dead of night, I always hope to have a bosom friend to talk to.

Floating on the left bank, how to find such a confidant? The White Horse Lake in Yangliuyiyi contains poems of Tang and Song Dynasties. It's foggy and rainy. I don't know if it will be dazzling to find flowers on the other side in one season. With a ring in his pocket, the inheritor of memory was lost in the misty and charming White Horse Lake.

Looking for the way Mercedes-Benz came, the petals rotate with the fallen leaves, like flying butterflies, like the way you dance, like the shallow pear vortex on my mouth.

In the thick night, splash a few drops of ink, write a few lies, read a few lyrics that I know by heart, and pretend to be gorgeous and still smile.

The smile on the corners of the mouth is stiff before stretching and maintaining a strange posture. We agreed not to laugh sadly, but we still wrote down the pain of being alone. No blood flow, no sharp wound, or pain to the bone marrow. There is wine between your lips and teeth, and you can swallow it with unspeakable acidity.

There are enchanting women dancing on the dance floor. I fainted after drinking a glass of wine at the bar. Laugh with me, say a heartbreaking word, and then strut out of your sight.

Counting the wind and moon, the dark shadows are wrapped in astringent thoughts, and the way home stretches into tears, and the desolation is soaked with unspeakable love. I just want to sing another song with my last hoarse voice!

Waiting for the scenery to lose color, waiting for the attention to close, waiting for the spring to leave this world before the flowers bloom, waiting for the quiet gaze of the night to devour hope.

The thickness of a piece of paper

Every page of this poem is written in ink.

I clearly remember the moment after meeting.

The unwritten heart tells a desolate season.

The throat-breaking cry lost its pitch.

There is a wonderful magnificence, which only exists in broken ice.

With another kind of power proudly dazzling.

Some missed regrets were cut off in fate.

The heart is clear, but the disguise of smiling is broken.

A fraction of a millimeter

Is the thickness of a piece of paper.

Can't bear the tears.

Erase the past with no way out.

How long is the past and how far is the future? A little poem written a long time ago has a musty smell of the old days. The rain, lingering, continued and intensively for a month, as if knowing the salty in my tears, and the cold rain and tears tightly woven into the curtain of dreams.

I have a dream. Who will talk to me?

Youth is defeated and desolate, and dreams are shattered so brilliantly, which reflects an indelible sadness, and together with this lingering rain, it is also like crying.

Waiting for the final parting, watching an unfinished waste and thinking about a future that has become the past. ...

It turns out that the painful memories of youth really can't stand the sigh of reality.

Can the thickness of a piece of paper carry all the memories?

Let go, leave, forget ... and finally drift away.

A song, a phantom, a short farewell.

Time silently towards the distant, leaving a thin and desolate figure of youth. I will stay where I am, watch your footsteps drift away, and then learn to live alone when I get old.

I can't predict what will happen in the future, nor can I see through everything in this world. I stupidly smiled at myself in the mirror. It turns out that I have been laughing so happily and so naive. For an instant, my eyes were in a trance. When all my friends lamented that I was old, why could I say that I was still young as if nothing had happened?

Why are things you don't understand so tangled? Let go, continue the happy life track, live in the stratosphere and comment on the troposphere world.

I haven't been able to write good words for a long time, and the rusty pen has long been unable to drip fragrant ink. Sadness spread, but no one saw it. When writing, the trace drawn at the end of the pen is a sad sigh. Throw it away, but it will be sad. My persistence, my contradiction, is so fragile.

In fact, I am not strong and unhappy. I'm at a loss about everything in the future, but my friends say I'm too idle.

I want to go on like this, in a new world, watching the glory after the prosperity has passed away.

You walked into other people's scenery with the scenery we have seen together. Your golden silhouette in the sunset is an indelible shadow in my youth. Gave us a safe smile when we passed by.

It turns out that the painful memories of youth really can't stand the sigh of reality.

It is dusk to wake up and dusk to dream. Looking at my lonely youth in the sunset, I suddenly want to laugh and cry. -written before graduation. Sender: Huanhuan 20 12-03- 19

PS: I don't know if you like this writing.