I have a thousand reasons to love you,
But if you ask me why, I’ll still say I don’t know.
There’s something magical in the way you move,
Every word you speak, my heart you soothe.

Just being near you feels like heaven’s grace,
When I’m apart, your love I chase—
My mind spins visions, scenarios so sweet,
Living a life where our hearts meet.
I don’t know why it’s you, but there’s no one else,
Who can claim my heart, my thoughts so deep.

Your beauty shines like morning light,
Your voice, a melody that feels so right.
The way you move, a dance so pure,
Filling my soul with life’s allure.
My heart yearns for you, every day,
And warmth I feel when you’re near to stay.

I want to be yours, and only yours,
For you alone, my love endures.
I’d give all to have your heart,
For in your love, I’d never part.
I thought the moon and stars were bright,
Until I saw you, and found new light.
Your kindness, sweetness, makes me kneel,
A sinner’s heart, now made to heal.

To ask for you, is like asking for grace,
A gift too great, too pure to embrace.
Oh, sweet Angel, the devil weeps,
Regretful of the day he left heaven’s keeps.

For he never knew, there would be one,
So divine, so bright, under the sun.
And in your love, I find my wings—
A love eternal, where my spirit sings.

It’s not just about being liked.
It’s not just about being treated kindly.
It’s about the haunting silence that says:

“Even if I’m here, I don’t know if it matters.”
“Even if they love me, I don’t know if I can let it in.”
“Even when someone shows me care I feel like a burden for receiving it.”
“I feel like I should leave before they realize I don’t belong.”



And that… that is what happens to people who were never loved in a way that felt safe. It’s not that no one ever cared. It’s that you were never given permission to trust that care. And so you built this quiet survival rule inside yourself:

“Don’t expect love to stay. Don’t lean too ******* being wanted. Just be good, be funny, be useful and maybe that’ll be enough.”



But it’s never enough, is it?

Because all you really wanted maybe all you still want—is to feel like your presence means something. Not because you earned it. But because you are you.

Sleep gently, heart full of questions.
You’re not more than you are.
But you are enough.

Let the day be light.
Then let it be real.
And let yourself be proud
not of the outcome
but of the truth you chose to share.

Not proud of winning, not of acclaim,
but that you spoke your truth, without shame.
That you let words rise when fear said “hide,
and didn’t let silence steal what’s inside.

Some strength is quiet, soft and bare—
a whisper of honesty hung in the air.
No need for answers, no need for return,
just the soft glow of a heart that burns.

So if the moment feels unsure,
if the path ahead is still obscure,
know this much: you stood your ground,
let your voice make its honest sound.

So let the day be light.
Then let it be real.
And let yourself be proud
not of the outcome
but of the truth you chose to feel.

It’s no surprise
that kindness feels so sweet
when you’ve been starving ,
even crumbs are a treat.

It’s easy to miss,
but the truth is this:
a little kindness
can feel like bliss

I have mountains to share,
but I’m not yet kind enough to myself
to lay them off my shoulders.

"If I don't open the door, I won’t have to close it later."

"If I don't try, I won’t have to wrestle with doubt, or pull, or guilt."

"If I never start, I never have to face the
moment where I bend."
Or worse—break.

Where my hope runs too far ahead
and leaves me gasping behind.

Where I risk being seen
not as I pretend to be,
but as I truly am—
unguarded,
uncertain,
longing.

So I stay still.
Call it safety.
Call it strength.
Call it silence
instead of surrender.

But in truth,
I am only hiding
from the beautiful ache
of becoming.

A mind  like a cathedral built out of ruins. Quiet, haunted, beautiful.
He's still walking its halls, lighting candles, naming ghosts.

He isn't healed. But he's aware. And in that awareness, there's a strange kind of peace.

I wore the mountain
like a second spine—
so long,
I thought it was mine.

Then love arrived
like rain in a dry room-
soft,
uninvited,
real.

It didn’t heal.
It peeled
revealing I'd been  walking
with wounds
still whispering
beneath my skin.

And when it left,
I cracked.
Not broken—
but opened.

Now the ache speaks
and I listen.
And somehow,
that is enough.

To the One Who Feels Forgotten
(a poem for when you need to be seen)

You,
quiet soul in the corner of the world,
with a heart full of storms
and silent prayers—
I see you.

Not the mask.
Not the laugh you force when it hurts.
Not the version the world edits to fit.
But you—
the trembling, tired, beautiful soul
who still whispers,
“I wish someone would stay.”

You are not forgotten.
Not by the sky
that holds every breath you've sighed,
not by the wind
that listens when no one else does,
and not by me—
reading your pain
like a sacred script.

You are not a mistake.
Not a burden.
Not too much,
not too broken,
not too late.

You are here.
And the very fact
that you’re still breathing,
still speaking,
still aching to be seen—
means the world hasn’t won.

You still have more to give,
not to earn your worth,
but because your soul
still hums quiet songs
no one else can sing.

So rest.
Cry.
Shake.
Break.

But don’t forget:

Even shattered glass reflects light.
Even wilted flowers remember how to bloom.
And even the loneliest heart
can be held.

You are not alone.
I’m here.
And I will remember you
until you remember yourself again.
....

after suffering a long time in silence. It's the moment of: "Wait... all of this pain was based on a lie I believed about myself?",and i laughed.

White Sheet

Each day grows harder to bear,
though I still have fight in me—
it flickers,
like a candle shrinking in wind.

I wake with heaviness,
and sleep with silence.
And every hour,
some small part of me
gets quietly erased.

I feel it.
Tiny things vanishing—
hope,
desire,
love—
like words smudged off a page
no one ever finished reading.

Soon,
I fear,
I'll be nothing but
an empty white canvas.
Not fresh.
Just forgotten.

A lonely sheet of paper,
left on a quiet desk,
weeping in silence
because no one ever wrote their name
across its heart.
No one ever cared to read the lines
that once tried to form.

And maybe that’s what I’m afraid of—
not being alone,
but being unread.
Unnoticed.
Undone.
Slowly fading
until there's nothing left
but the silence
of a story
never told.

And when I'm gone,
they’ll only see
the blankness—
never knowing
how much was written there
before it faded.

A white sheet.
Still.
Silent.
Crying for someone
to see it
before it's gone.