Emotions crash like thunder on a paper-thin sky,
Anger — a wildfire blooming beneath my ribs.
Sadness — a glacier crushing bone to dust,
Tears — the silence before the flood devours.

Guilt — a worm rotting the roots of my brain,
Happiness — a mirage flickering behind frozen glass.
Tiredness — deep valleys carved beneath my eyes,
And life? A cruel god laughing through a cracked mirror.

The wolves pursue in starving packs,
Their howls a hymn to midnight’s mark.
But I have learned the art of flight,
To guard my small, defiant spark.

I stumble into serpents’ coils,
Their venom laced in silken art.
They hiss, they weave, they pierce with lies—
Yet cannot touch my steadfast heart.

A cut so deep it cries for stitches,
Blood flows like sorrow on my face.
It stains my hands, it burns my soul,
Yet I bear it with a silent grace.

I call it failure—but not defeat,
A bruise I wear, a lesson earned.
The fire may scald, the thorns may bite,
Still, toward my goal, my spirit turns.

The flowers bloom in quiet pride,
as if the earth has turned to bride.
The wind, in silken celebration,
spins the air with sweet elation.

Cherry blossoms, soft and bright,
blush like hearts in morning light.
And wisteria, draped with care,
hangs like jewels in nature’s hair.

Your hair band arcs—a tender bow,
a rainbow resting soft and low.
And in your gaze, a season sings:
a sky of light, a soul with wings.

You twinkle, graceful, wild, and free—
the very breath of spring to me.
Not just a season passing through—
you are the bloom my spirit knew.

It doesn’t rain —
it weeps through a broken mask,
the sky unzipping its stitched-up grief
and letting sorrow bleed down like silk.

Rain drips like rosary beads
counting sins backwards,
washing blood from sidewalks
but not from time.

Animals whisper first —
fur quivering with prophecy.
Dogs howl at ghosts we pretend aren’t there.
Cats dissolve into shadow
like smoke slipping through cracks in logic.

People sleep,
wrapped in their own warmth,
not knowing the storm outside
is the Earth mourning itself.

Some cry beneath the clouds.
Some grin like broken clocks.
Some dissolve —
quiet as paper in water.

They say every night ends —
but not every soul waits long enough
to see the ink fade.
Some vanish,
not because they gave up —
but because the veil closed too tight.

And no one reads
the pages they became.

Above, the clouds convene in grief,
So swollen, seeking some relief.
I raise my voice into the hush:
“What sorrow stirs this tender crush?”

And still, I say—cry if you must.
Tears are not treason. Winds are trust
I will not flinch beneath your pain;
Let sorrow fall. Let go. Let rain.

The sky turns green—a fevered hue,
As grief consumes both me and you.
But I will stand, though tempests call—
Your witness, shield, your quiet wall.

So storm, beloved, break and seethe.
I’ll hold the line. I will not leave.
When all your strength has come undone,
I’ll stay,
until
your light returns.

The water winds through cracks it calls its own,
Unmoved by stone, yet shaped by every line.
A path unseen, by silent current sown,
Its flow suggests a fate both firm, divine.

With you I walk, through storm and burning sky,
Our footprints carved in earth that tried to break.
Though shadows stretch, we lift our heads up high,
And kindle light no darkness dares to take.

If ever pain should pull you far below,
I'll dive where even sorrow fears to tread.
Through waves that crash, through undertow and woe,
I’ll swim until your heart finds shore instead.

The dream we chase lies just beyond the blue—
A breath, a step—and we’ll arrive as two.

I fell in an ocean—
not of my choosing,
not with a map or a promise of shore.
Just silence,
cold,
and the weight of everything I never deserved.

A shark came—
of course it did.
Pain always smells the softest hearts.
It circled, snapped,
tried to tear the light from my chest.
But I—I thrashed.
I bled, yes.
But I fought.

I am not the daughter of their dreams.
I am not a trophy in their pride parade.
I am the storm they never saw coming—
quiet, scarred, and still standing.

Why do the unkind smile
while the kind drown?
I don’t know.
But I know this:
I’ve carried pain
like a secret blade
and I’ve used it
to carve my own path
through the dark.

Now, I release it.
I leave the rest to God—
the judgment, the justice,
the why-me, the why-not.

Because I’m proud of my scars.
They’re not weakness.
They’re proof.

That I survived the ocean.
That even when the world tried to eat me—
I refused to disappear.

A heap of waste may reek at first,
but even rot makes room for roots.
What begins in decay
can still rise in bloom.
There’s still hope—
quiet, maybe,
but steady like a seed beneath the soil.

And if the ship goes under—
don’t wait for rescue.
Swim.
Even if the sea is endless,
even if hope is a whisper.
Better to reach with burning lungs
than to sink with “what if” in your chest.

The forest hummed its ancient lullaby,
Cold winds threading sorrow through my skin.
Its trees—bowed, yet never broken—murmured:
"It is our fate to wither or to rise,
To ache, or chase the flicker of fading stars.
But the soul—you alone may steer its course.
Be still—every forest ends in light,
The sky will one day kiss the sea,
And even the sun must drown in the ocean’s hush.
Yes, it aches. So endure—or awaken."

For not all wounds are soothed by silence,
Not all chains are meant to hold.
Some dreams slip through trembling hands,
But it is never your fault when they fall.

Why does it feel as though a mountain rests upon my chest?
My shoulders splintering, bowed beneath its weight,
My heart, shattered glass upon the cold earth,
Yearning for a breeze to sweep it whole again.

Oh Lord, am I but a fragile soul?
Why burden me with more than I can bear?
While they dance in sunlight's golden glow,
I am lost, drowning in the shadows' grasp.
Why do they sip from chalices of gold,
While I stand, empty, watching their joy cascade like rain?

The autumn leaves feel so aesthetic—
a gentle filter draped on time,
a sepia kiss on our photograph,
making it look happily sad.

I see it like that.

For one day, we too shall fall
like dried leaves
from the tree of life and memory.
Old, pale-gold, fragile in form—
but never in love.

Don’t they look beautifully aged,
soft as whispered stories,
aesthetic in their quiet descent—
just like we will be, one day.

And if time must wither us,
I want to wither beside you—
to curl like a golden leaf
around your presence,
falling gently into forever.

We’ll rest upon the roads
where others pass—
some may pause and notice,
others will simply move on.

But we’ll remain—
an old poem written in leaves,
pressed between seasons,
forever soft in memory.

The mirror holds a fractured grace, glazed in melancholy.
A vintage gown drapes her sorrowed frame—
beauty hidden in the silence of old seams.
Beneath a spotlight sharpened by judgment,
she once danced to the hush of a blade,
each step a wound,
each twirl a quiet cry.
But when she bled, no hands reached—
only eyes, heavy with verdicts.
They mapped her scars
with whispers cloaked in care,
too late, too false.
Now, she does not flinch.
She gathers their dust
and builds a throne.
She wears her wounds
like medals sewn in moonlight,
her silence louder than their noise—
brave not because she is unbroken,
but because she walks,
unafraid of the cracks.

Let me hold you,
like fire curls around the air it needs.
Your presence stirs something in me—
a longing that no silence feeds.

I’d break for you, bend for you,
become shelter when the world forgets to be kind.
I’d give without question,
lose myself, just to see you find me.

So stay.
Always… be with me.

I yearn to lose myself in you,
like rivers surrendering to the sea’s embrace.
You are the petals—soft, sacred—
and I, the flower, drawn to your grace.

Desire glows beneath my skin,
like sun flares aching to begin.
I would fall into every shade of your shadow,
burning, if it meant you'd never feel hollow.

It begins on a night swollen with rain,
where clouds smother truth like wet cloth.
The stars—mute witnesses—are veiled,
while the moon rises, gleaming
with light it did not earn.

It did not defy darkness—
it inherited glow,
passed down like titles
washed clean of blood.

Scars mark its face—
not from survival,
but from ambition.
It hides them beneath stolen shine,
pretending to be whole.

Justice hangs in the clouds,
soft now, drifting.
They cannot strip
what charm has already excused.

The stars still burn,
but no one looks.
Their light dims
beneath praise
for the clever thief.

The ground is veined with sorrow’s trace,
Each crack a line time dared to write.
The grass—a ghost of greener days—
Now bends in grief, withdrawn from light.

The building stands in breathless hush,
Its lungs are filled with mold and spores.
Each wall a canvas time has brushed,
Each bruise a tale behind closed doors.

The windows blink with uneven eyes,
Some wide with hope, some shut in fear.
They do not guard, they do not guide—
They choose who may draw near.

The doors lean in like weary men,
Too tired to trust, too hurt to mend.
They’ve learned to greet the wind alone,
Unhinged by hands that should defend.

The swing is still—a cradle’s ghost,
A joy once carved in child's laugh.
Now silent, still, it mourns the loss
Of someone who won’t wander back.

The water waits in mirrored dread,
Reflecting all it dared to keep.
One touch, and it would spill its heart—
To break is easier than to weep.

Who did this? Who let beauty spoil?
Who priced it down to rust and dust?
“They cost too much,” the verdict read—
And so they left it, robbed of trust.

But this, this ruin breathes a truth—
It lacks not soul, but song and name.
It doesn’t need a coat of paint,
It needs someone to call it flame.

For listen close beneath decay:
A heart still knocks within the frame.
But friend—
This is not about the building.

They don’t just describe emotions—
They dissect them.
Make you wonder
Why you feel,
And how much.

Some let their pens speak,
Others carry verses within—
Written on the walls of their minds,
Etched into the pulse of their hearts.

Poets are powerful.
They paint sorrow with beauty,
And make joy even more delightful.
They show us the world
Through an entirely different lens.

They can dress poverty in poetry,
And make wealth seem vainly stunning.
They stir our emotions,
Make us love deeply—
And hate just as fiercely.

We’re all born with a poet inside us.
Most just forget to listen.

Regrets—
like halo nevi,
ghost-circles etched beneath the skin,
not quite wounds,
but not quite gone.

I carry silence like a sealed coffin,
heavy not with death,
but with all I never said.
Grief grows in the throat
where words once should have lived.

My past lingers—
not like a shadow,
but like a scent in a room no one enters anymore.
Rot clings softly,
sweet and unbearable.

There is a golden rose—
my mother.
Once blooming with fire,
now fading
petal by petal.
Each fall is a clock hand turning,
and I am forced to watch.

I want to hold her together
with magic,
with anything—
but my hands shake,
and time doesn’t wait
for trembling children.

I tried to build her peace—
a garden with soft walls,
sun-warmed laughter,
a space untouched by cruelty.
But I only built ruins,
a house with love in its bones
and grief in its windows.

She looks at me,
still bleeding
from wounds she took in my name.
Her strength was stitched into my survival.
I stand
because she broke.

And still—
she smiles.

We drift.
Two hearts once knotted tight
now pulled by slow, merciless winds.
I feel the thread thinning.
I know it will snap.
Everything beautiful eventually does.

I wish I could rewind
every unkind second,
every moment I was too late to love her right.
But time isn’t kind.
It only moves forward—
a thief that never apologizes.

My heart is a drum
pounding behind a cracked ribcage,
not with life—
but with fear.

I watch her—
fragile, fading,
each second more precious
because it cannot be kept.

And I know
regret is coming.
Like halo nevi—
soft, invisible, permanent.

She is everything.
And I—
I am only the witness
to her slow disappearance.

Some memories hurt, like rain on the skin,
Soaking me deep, seeping within.
Some strike like lightning, fierce and loud,
Leaving behind scars I carry proud.

But not all scars are born from pain—
Some come from laughter, sunshine, rain.
A smile once shared, a hand held tight,
Leaves marks just as real, though soft and light.

We often remember the wounds that sting,
But joy leaves fingerprints on everything.
Like grip marks etched from love’s embrace,
They stay through time, they hold their place.

So when the sorrow calls your name,
Look closer—joy walks just the same.
To live is to feel—both rise and fall,
Each moment matters, big or small.

A flat line means silence, an end to the fight,
But life lives in motion—in dark and in light.
So I’ll treasure the scars, both gentle and deep,
For they tell the story I’m destined to keep.

The veiled mist surrounds my life,
No certainty of where it ends.
One thing’s sure—it will, in time—
Yet solace hides in shadowed bends.
Somewhere within the fog of days,
A hush of peace may lie in wait—
But will I find it 'fore it fades,
Or chase its ghost a breath too late?

Canoeing through these waves alone,
No map to show where currents flow.
Will I arrive at gentle shores—
Or crash on rocks I didn’t know?

Life—it's gambling with a breath,
A roll of stars, a coin mid-air—
Will you win a jewel of worth,
Or lose what can't be grown elsewhere?

But maybe that's the soul of it—
This glaze of chance on life's warm crust.
It must be veiled in shifting light—
To make it shine, to make us trust.

Something clutches my chest—
a ghost-hand, tight as ivy on stone.
My heart, a trembling bird,
flutters at the edge of a storm.

The center of me burns—
a dying sun folding into itself,
pulling all light
into a single, aching point.

And there—
a tide of shadows calls,
dragging me down
where even dreams forget to rise.

I sit on a stone that never softens,
but it’s not my skin that cries—
it’s the storm clawing at my hands,
the weight I cradle in silence,
pretending it’s not there
as it eats through bone.

I am drowning—
not in water,
but in quiet waves that no one sees.
They pull me under
as I learn to move
with pain pressed close—
like a mother who never meant to hurt me.

My smile stretches—
a trembling bridge of porcelain
trying to hold back a wildfire.
It cracks at the corners,
but I keep smiling,
because I forgot how not to.

Anxiety curls like smoke,
slow and poisonous in my chest,
while I stand on a tower of cards—
every decision
a fragile breath away
from ruin.

I dance on the cliff’s edge,
not out of bravery,
but because I was shoved there.
And the wind,
so cruel in its lullaby,
sings a song
that only the breaking can hear.

The alarm cries again—
not to wake me,
but to drag me
back into the fire I call routine.
Each day,
another performance
in the theatre of almost falling apart.

Still, I rise—
not because I’m strong,
but because I haven’t yet
found a soft place to fall.

Once,
the tree was only a whisper—
a dream cradled in the arms of soil.
A tiny seed, trembling,
yet daring to believe in sunlight.

Storms came early.
Winds screamed names it didn't understand.
But it stayed—
letting its roots sink deep
into the quiet ache of the earth.
The soil, ancient and tender,
carried centuries of silent sacrifices.
It held the tree like a promise
never meant to break.

Its branches stretched—
not for the sky,
but for something softer,
maybe hope.
Each knot in its wood,
a story of pain swallowed instead of spoken.
Each resin drip—
a memory stuck in the hollows of its chest.

Still, it stood.
Beasts circled.
Axes whispered through the leaves.
But the soil whispered louder—
“Grow. Even if it hurts.
Even if they try to break you.
Be so strong they forget how to cut you.”

But not every root finds water.
Not every seed feels sun.
Some trees grow in shadows so deep
they start thinking darkness is home.

Some fall.
Not from weakness,
but from carrying too much silence.

And when all that’s left
is a stump in the clearing—
they call it the end.
But beneath the surface,
the roots still hum.
They remember.
They ache.
They whisper the moments
when the tree wanted to give in—
but didn't.
Not yet.

Because it thought of the soil.
The quiet hands that held it.
The love that never asked to be seen,
but was always there.

It wanted to stay.
It truly did.
But sometimes, the rain never comes.
And sometimes,
the weight of invisible pain
is heavier than a storm.

And still—
even as it fell,
it thought:
If I leave,
what will happen to the soil?
Will it blame itself
for a drought it couldn’t stop?

Because trees don’t just die.
Sometimes,
they break their own hearts
to keep from breaking their roots.

Our destinies entwine like the Vallisneria bloom,
Its longing stem rising through waters of hope.
Fate’s quiet currents bear the wandering spores,
Bringing them home to a love foretold.

Love drifts through the air, unseen yet alive,
a silent melody only our hearts can hear.
Raindrops weave whispers upon the earth,
soft sighs urging us closer—
come near, it’s cold.

Beneath the hush of moonlit tides,
I’ll lead you where the waves hum in silver,
where the night cradles our secrets like pearls.
No tide too high, no storm too wild—
I will stand, unwavering, for you.

I am the drone, drawn to your light,
you, my sovereign sun, my queen, my fate.
With steadfast wings, I will serve,
I will shield, I will stay.

The stars hold tight to threads of night,
burning with secrets forged in light.
Comets, like wanderers lost in time,
once bound by fate, now break their line.

One by one, they blaze and fade,
each carving paths the heavens made.
And I, adrift in hollow space,
watched my UFO embrace the chase.

An oracle whispered, bold yet true,
"Their light is theirs, but so is yours too."
It led me where no trail was drawn,
but I alone chose to go beyond.

I would not follow, nor outshine,
but forge a path that felt like mine.
Not just a spark in endless blue,
but fire that burned with something new.

I kiss the air between us, a breeze that lingers,
tracing soft patterns on your skin.
A tiny scar catches my eye—
a story I wish I'd been part of,
and suddenly, I want to protect every piece of you.

I study you like poetry written in touch,
my lips trailing every verse.
I am yours, entirely, undeniably—
and, darling, you have exquisite taste.

The stigma of failure doesn’t run like a train,
Yet passengers crowd in, each forced to sip the same brew.
A new recruit takes the cup—bitter yet familiar,
Caffeine laced with ambition, turning addiction into success.

A mind, once unshackled, stumbles upon serendipity,
Yet the soil, the seeds, the rain—none are to blame.
It’s not the land that falters, nor the roots that wither,
But the way we shape each sprout to fit a rigid frame.

Growth isn’t nurtured—it’s engineered,
Hormones infused, branches pruned,
Till every tree stands the same,
A forest of conformity, swaying to expectation’s tune.

You tied the rope around my neck—
The same rope that once wove our fates together.
You shattered the ceramic vase,
Where we had planted the roots of forever.

"If it breaks, we’ll do kintsugi," you once said.
But what now?
The shards cut too deep,
And you left before the gold could mend the cracks.

You broke me like glass against a stone floor,
Fractured in places even time cannot reach.
You whispered love, and I bottled it—
A song trapped in a broken cassette,
Rewinding itself to echoes of an unraveling past.

You were my sun, pulling me into your orbit,
But the eclipse lingers too long.
I stand in the shadow, waiting for dawn.

And still, I wait—
Even as my ribs splinter under the weight of hope.
Even as my heart beats against a hollow door,
Knocking, knowing you will never answer.

Studying last minute is like reheating fries—
It kinda works, but it’s never the same quality!
You wouldn’t be drowning in books tonight,
If your delulu dreams took a backseat right,
But oh, love won’t help you pass the fight!

The rain weaves its fingers through my hair,
like your love, sinking into every strand of my being.
Each drop, a syllable in the poem of us,
each breeze, the hush of your voice against my skin.

The clouds drift above, not mere vapor,
but the outstretched arms of your devotion,
hovering, shielding, wrapping me in whispers of forever.

I am not science, no formula to decode,
no equation seeking balance—
I am the ink that bleeds into parchment,
the unchained verse, reckless and free.

I love you like the moon loves the tides,
pulled by forces unseen, unmeasured—
like a comet that forgets its path,
falling, falling, into the gravity of you.

You wear the mask of kindness,
A porcelain smile, polished for the world.
Your hands reach for all but the one who lingers
In your shadow, silent as dusk—
Is she truly beloved, or just a name you keep?

She is a paper lantern in a storm,
Her grievances fold like hidden creases,
Tied tight as a kimono’s breathless knot.
She stands within the sacred rites,
A ghost among the living,
Draped in the weight of unseen chains.

But you chase reflections in silvered glass,
A puppet to the world’s approving gaze.
Yet the truth is not a mirror’s trick—
It bends, warps, escapes,
Like light slipping through a shattered lens

The bruises you veil beneath a painted smile,
Layers of foundation masking hollow nights.
Dark, pale suffering seeps through the cracks,
While red-rimmed eyes whisper silent prayers—
Begging, pleading for an unheard dawn.

"God, how cruel to silence a woman's cry."

But fate was inked in unseen hands,
And she faded—not in scripted sorrow,
Not in a drama where love rewrites the end,
But in the quiet decay of indifference.

It wasn’t just her war to lose,
But a battle rigged by a world that never listened—
A coin flipped, always landing on the rotten side.

The chest is a coffin, cradling shards of a broken heart,
Too heavy to carry, too shattered to restart.
It once wept rivers for you, drowning in its own tide,
But the brain scoffed—"Fool, let the ocean run dry."

The heart still carves your name into its aching walls,
A prisoner of love, bound by rusted chains that never fall.
"You are hollow," the heart cries in disdain,
"Love escapes you—you lust in vain.
You're frail, mere desire guides your way,

I knew roses had thorns, yet I plucked them with bare hands,
Let them sink deep, let them bleed, let them brand.
And when the wounds screamed, I kissed them shut,
Sewing my pain with threads of dusk.

Every bone hums with the echoes of losing you,
Every ligament, every tendon—ghost limbs reaching through.
Yet the heart, made of muscle, does nothing but break—
It does not heal, it only loves, hates, and aches.

The flower needs rest,
so winter tucks it beneath the earth,
letting it sleep until spring.

The sun needs rest,
so the clouds and rain embrace it,
shielding its warmth for another day.

A sheep unshorn, a misfit star,
too wild for wool, too sharp for flocks.
It walked alone where twilight wept,
where mountaintops kissed silver clocks.

Judgment struck like feathered arrows,
but wounds grew wings and took to flight.
"I’ll carve my throne from nameless echoes,
build my own laws beneath the night."

Yet beauty whispered, laced with teeth,
a velvet snarl in hunger’s guise.
The wolves arrived—moonlit beasts,
with gleaming pearls of red-stained lies.

Beauty isn’t soft, nor kind, nor fair,
It’s a rare flame, wild in the air.
A mirage that shifts, a whispered disguise,
Wrapped in illusion, unseen to the eyes.

The sheep stood firm where darkness danced,
while others cursed the sky’s despair.
Was beauty love or sharpened fangs?
A question lost to midnight air.

Bound by fate or freed by choice,
it laughed—"I’ll fall, but not in fear."
For even flight can lead to chains,
and even wolves can disappear.

Breathing smoke of silent cries,
Under moonlit, ashen skies.
Dreams dissolve in curling mist,
Lost in echoes, never kissed.

Fingers trace the fading light,
Chasing warmth in endless night.
Cinders dance where whispers fade,
Shadows hum the songs we made.

Breathing smoke of days once bright,
Drifting far beyond my sight.
Ashes settle, soft and slow,
In the silence, embers glow.

I like you—there, I said it now.
No fancy lines, no practiced vow.
Your voice? A song that lingers long.
Your smile? A spark that feels so strong.

It feels unreal, a little wild,
Like a daydream drawn by a love-struck child.
But here we stand, just you and me,
No need for grand, just let it be.

The flowers in my heart all know,
Whenever you’re near, they start to grow.
The world is loud, the crowd's a blur,
Yet my eyes find only her... you.

Let’s stay a while—no rush, no race,
Just soft night air and time to waste.
The terrace glows, the sun turns red,
Blushing like the words unsaid.

So here I am, no games, no clue—
Just hoping maybe... you like me too?

The sky wears my grief in a veil of storm clouds,
Each thunderclap an elegy, each lightning bolt a verdict.
Even if you wash away the crimson stains,
The echoes of your sins will never fade.

Why does sorrow weave my fate into thorn-laden tapestries?
Did my cries kiss your ears, or did you weave silence as a shield?
You shattered me into constellations of agony,
Each droplet a relic of your unatoned sins.

The valleys yawn like ancient wounds,
Rivers of rubies spill through their veins,
While mountains rise as merciless titans,
Laughing at my feeble hands that cannot scale their spines.

The fire you kindled consumed more than my flesh—
Only ashes remain, whispers of a tragedy embalmed in wind.
Yet my soul lingers, a wraith woven from anguish,
Drifting between dusk and dawn, pleading for reckoning.

Lost in the labyrinth of wailing willows, I hunger for justice,
Yet solitude devours me like a specter feasting on the guilty.
You were the beast cloaked in borrowed skin,
A shadow masquerading as light—could you not be human for a breath?

Justice rides the chariot of time, relentless as the tide.
Soon, the wind shall carry the taste of your own venom,
And the stars will script your downfall in the language of the gods.

Is this the end—
the final wilt of a flower that never bloomed?
My name fades like ink
washed away by merciless rain,
my dreams crumble
like abandoned sandcastles at dusk.

Where is the wildfire
that once roared inside me?
Now I am a candle,
melting without a flame,
a shadow chasing a sun
that never rises for me.

What is the point of pain
if it never runs dry?
It stretches like an endless ocean,
each wave heavier than the last,
dragging me deeper—
where light cannot reach.

I walk a road no one else takes,
where streetlights are ghosts,
where even the wind forgets to whisper.
The river beneath the bridge writhes,
never still, never calm,
just like me.

God, was it too much to ask
Wished for some hurdles to lessen,
But even the roadside grass
Knows no mercy under the weight of passing feet

I never wanted to beg,
but mercy tastes sweet
when you are starving.
Still, no hand reaches out,
no voice calls my name.

I tried to belong,
but I am the night sky—
swallowing all color,
never reflecting back the light.

Let me breathe—
but the air is an ocean,
and I am drowning in silence.

Want someone to skip a beat of my heart
Want my soul to rest without vanishing?
Want someone to notice—before I am gone?
God, is it really too much to ask?

I write my heart in lines of gold,
yet silence greets the words I’ve told.
Like petals lost upon the breeze,
my voice drifts far, yet none it sees.

I trace the stars with ink and dreams,
but shadows drown their quiet gleam.
Four hands that reach, yet still too few,
when all I want is to break through.

Is it the sky that hides my light?
Or fate that steals me from their sight?
But even whispers shape the sea,
and even unseen roots grow free.

So though the echoes fade so fast,
I’ll carve my name in time at last.

Maybe someday

The world of lies, with hollow eyes,
No, it is not the place for me.
You know I'm lonely—so lonely,
No one beside me, lost in the sea.

I long for a soulmate to carve a name
In the golden sands by the restless waves.
But the tides will come and wash it away—
Who do I turn to? Who will stay?

The sun exists, yet hides at night,
Just like me—I seem alright,
But deep inside, I fight my plight.

This world is a shadow, near in light,
Gone in the dark, out of sight.
This world won't change, I know it's true—
But one day, gold will come to you.

Let the dogs bark, let them sneer,
One day, their voices will disappear.
If they won’t let you fly, walk the sky,
If they block your path, keep moving by.

Push ahead, no matter how,
Chase your dreams, don’t stop now.
Without pain, life is incomplete,
Wings will sprout, though your back may bleed.

This world won’t change, but still, I try.
I am alone, lost in the night.
I don’t know when or how I’ll fall,
But I know—again—I’ll hit the floor.

****** tears from words that sting,
Yet life sways like a see-saw swing.
One day you're high, one day you're low,
But through it all, you learn and grow.

I stand upon the cliff’s last breath,
Where tides arise and thunder spills.
Scavengers circle, watching, waiting—
Yet life still lingers in my bones.

The clouds above, like silent judges,
Could break and drown my fleeting hope.
Beneath, the ocean coils and beckons,
A fathomless abyss of sorrow.

The silver moon, a gleaming specter,
Summons waves to pull me under.
I teeter on the fragile edge,
One slip, one plunge into the deep.

Lightning snarls—a voice of warning,
A jolt to burn or leave me scarred.
If not with fire, then silent shadows
Will haunt me long beyond this night.

I saw the algae, once alive,
Now ghosts adrift upon the tide.
The trees I passed stood tall together,
Yet whispered falsehoods to the wind.

Serpents coil around their roots,
Whispering promises of power.
Many fall to hollow hunger,
Chasing echoes, craving ruin.

But air is shared, though lungs may differ,
And souls define, not flesh alone.
Roots can mend, bear fruits of wonder—
Change, though feared, is never lost.

If you listen, let it guide you.
Nature bends but bids us rise.
Though the storm may rage relentless,
Yet even storms must bow to light.

The sadness falls in sheets of rain—
I long for an umbrella of love.
You are the Atlantic, lost in tides,
I am the Pacific, distant above.

Two waters that will never meet,
divided by fate, by silent war.
Loneliness hums in flickering streetlights,
shadows stretch, but mine is no more.

The mirror mocks with a cruel smile,
a stranger wears my skin and eyes.
If self-love is an illusion,
why can’t I stop despising mine?

My world, once golden, now Atlantis,
drowning beneath a memory.
The pillars that held my past and pain,
once strong with love, now start to break.

And as the cracks run deep and wide,
they show the truth I failed to see—
the ones I cherished, swore were mine,
were only ghosts disguised as peace.

El Dorado gleamed on the horizon,
but it’s farther than the stars abide.
Betrayal shattered like porcelain glass,
a wound too deep for love to hide.

Yet even ruin learns to harden—
one day, I will return the favor in steel.

I hum the quiet melodies of life,
each note bending toward your name.
You moved closer—effortless, inevitable—
as dusk leans into the arms of night.

Love is simple to define,
but your heart remains a cipher,
its rhythm shifting beneath my hands,
a tide I could never hold.

Once, I was your horizon,
the place where every journey ended.
Your gaze, weightless as stardust,
unraveled me in the hush of a smile.
From a distance, you watched—
like the evening sun kissing the sea,
departing, yet aching to remain.

When I stood at the edge of myself,
wavering between gravity and sky,
you pulled me back. But if love is a fall,
then let me descend into you.

Let me collide with your quiet ruin,
where even the breaking feels like flight.

It hurts so bad, I cannot breathe—
A storm within, I cannot leave.

My iron heart, once forged so strong,
Now brittle, cracking, something wrong.

What is missing? What have I lost?
Why does the past return, like frost?
The pain—it lingers, cloaked in rain,
Thunder murmurs all my pain.

Afraid to take one step ahead,
The ladder shakes, my soul has bled.
My legs, they tremble—weak, too small,
I know—I know—I’m bound to fall.

The air smells old—like ghosts, like time,
A bitter taste, a steep decline.
Why does the past still call my name?
Why must I burn inside this flame?

But even storms must break, must die,
And even pain runs out of sky.

So though I shake, though I despair,
I’ll climb—I’ll climb—through fractured air.

The scent of autumn lingers like an unspoken goodbye,
hanging in the air, thick with memories I cannot erase.
The crisp whisper of dying leaves grazes my skin—
a ghostly echo of your touch, fleeting and bittersweet.
Once, we walked upon these very leaves,
crushing them beneath careless footsteps,
the way you crushed my heart—without hesitation, without pause.

You vanished like the wind,
leaving no footprint, no farewell,
just a silence so deafening it swallowed me whole.
And yet, even in your absence, you haunt me.
What are you up to now?
Do you ever stop and wonder if the ashes of what we were
still smolder somewhere within me?

Time, they say, heals all wounds.
But what of the wounds that refuse to close?
Seasons passed, but the winter inside me stayed.
I thought I would move on with the turning of the leaves,
but my heart remained shackled to the past.

I nurtured us.
Planted seeds of tenderness,
watered them with love,
let the sunlight of my devotion bathe them.
But in the dark, it was only winterberry—
beautiful to the eye, poisonous to the touch.
And you, you did not just let it wither.
You diseased the roots.
You let it rot while I still believed it could bloom.

You did not just leave.
You hollowed me out.
You splintered my soul,
turned my love into a sickness I could not cure.
I was left clawing at the remains of myself,
desperate to bring life back to what you destroyed.

Now I walk, but I do not feel alive.
My heart no longer races, no longer aches—it is still, frozen.
My blood has turned to red crystals, sharp and jagged,
reflecting regret, hatred, frustration.
A ruin, a monument to everything we could have been.

Was it fate?
Fate is a cruel joke told by the heartbroken.
No, this was not fate—this was deception,
dressed in the warmth of a lover’s arms.

My lips, once softened by your whispers,
are now cold as winter’s first frost.
Had I known I was merely a pen in your hand,
used until the ink bled dry,
I would have never written our story.

Move on, they tell me.
As if love were a season to be endured and forgotten.
As if I did not love you the way Giselle loved—
blind, unknowing, doomed from the start.