He moves like moonlight spilled on tired streets,
A hush in the chaos where softness repeats.
Eyes like dewdrops on windows at dawn,
Holding stories that ache but still carry on.

He is a sketch left half in charcoal and gold,
A canvas of silences tenderly bold.
Not thunder or fire — he is the breeze,
That touches your soul then leaves with ease.

A book with no title, a line never said,
He’s coffee gone cold that still warms your head.
A lighthouse that waits with a gentle light,
Though no ship may come — he stays through the night.

He speaks in pauses, in glances, in air,
A poem unwritten but floating somewhere.
He is not yours, and may never be,
But he lives in the corners where dreams run free.

So you sit with your heart pressed against a screen,
Loving a shadow that feels serene.
For not all love must touch or stay—
Some simply glows and walks away.

When the world shatters, piece by piece,
Each shard too lost—if found, too heavy to seize.
Life becomes a wasteland, where joy’s just a trace,
So numb… even sorrow wears a human face.

She’s like a little squirrel—
nervous, nimble, with eyes that hold galaxies.
Will you come to me, love?
I won’t hurt you—
just sit still, and let you breathe in peace.

She’s a sunflower—
spinning gold in the wind, joyful even when bruised.
Can I be your sun?
I’ll rise for you every morning,
no matter how cloudy the world gets.

She sleeps like the sky—
dark velvet draped over the world.
Can I be your stars?
I’ll hold you in constellations,
blanket you with hush and warmth.
Or your moon—
watching from just close enough,
loving you in silence
so you never feel alone.

She’s a petal in the wind—
soft, yet unyielding,
holding her dignity like armor
until she quietly breaks.
Let me be your rain—
healing, soothing,
a shelter you can tuck beneath
when thunder knocks too loudly.

If the earth grows too heavy,
I will carry you—barefoot, if I must,
just to lighten your steps.
Will you trust me?
Even once—
I’ll spend forever earning it.

Being unique was never a crack in the mirror—
it’s the golden thread in the world’s plain fabric,
the secret ingredient in a recipe
everyone forgot they needed.

A wheelchair isn’t a cage—
it’s a shopping cart of dreams,
rolling down aisles others never explore,
collecting strength in bulk.

Trees don’t hear the wind—yet they dance with it.
Mountains don’t hear the storm—yet they stand through it.
The moon hears nothing—yet it pulls oceans.
Candles don’t hear prayers—yet they bring light to them.

Dark spots, birthmarks—
don’t hide them.
They are constellations etched by the divine
Those are post-it notes from the universe,
tagged onto your skin so angels can recognize you in crowds.

Ugly?
Who told you that?
A cracked spoon doesn’t ruin the taste of soup.
So why let someone else's broken lens define your reflection?
From whose map are you lost?
Because flowers don’t ask mirrors
if they bloomed correctly.

You are not a flaw.
You are a first edition.
what law have you broken by just being?
When criminals plead for mercy without shame,
why do you, the kindest soul,
hold your own self in chains?

Destiny's policy includes both thunder and calm,
but the question is:
Will you rise from the ashes or let the storm sink your ink?

Do you love yourself enough to bleed truth?
Have you folded lessons into your skin like origami wisdom?
Are you brave enough
to face every fire your choices lit?

If yes—
then crush that "fate" under your feet.
Dip your pen in the ink of your soul.
Tear the script.
Break the rules.
Write a story so fearless
even destiny will pause...
and ask for your autograph.

Is it raining too much tonight?
Is the thunder giving you a fright?
No, my love, don’t fear the sky—
The Almighty’s just passing by,
Taking pictures with every light,
Of the masterpiece in His sight.

When morning light gently touches your face,
And evening hums the song our hearts both know,
You are the goddess time can’t ever replace—
Your warmth is what makes even cold nights glow.

Your eyes are deep, like stars could hide in there,
They pull me in, the way the moon moves tides.
And like the sun that dances through spring air,
Your beauty shines—so soft, it never hides.

I’m just a bee, enchanted by your scent,
Drawn to the sweetness in your gentle bloom.
And as the sun begins its slow descent,
It crowns your skin with gold, like soft perfume.

So fate declares you loveliest of all,
And I, your poet, rise to heed love’s call.

Your hair’s cropped, bare enough
for me to memorize the shape of you—
my hands don’t wander; they return.

With your glasses, you glimpse the world.
Without them, you’re mine—
the blur becomes me,
and I become everything you see.

The bruise I left was no accident—
desire marked you because words couldn’t.
It bloomed like a secret only we could touch,
a dark petal over your skin

The ocean is jealous;
it will never know the depth I’ve fallen into you.
I’ve fallen into you so deep,
even gravity would beg for mercy.

You’re not a habit—
you’re a need.
I vape your scent like it's the last breath I'll take,
not to live, but to burn.

We met in the mist,
but that was no coincidence.
I called for you before I even knew your name.

And now,
I don’t just love you—
I ache to keep you,
every second,
in every breath,
beneath every bruise.

1.Your hand finds my heart,
not to claim, but to listen—
love breathes in stillness.


2.Eyes meet in silence,
the world folds into a sigh—
only we remain.


3.Touch like falling rain,
gentle, warm, and infinite—
I bloom in your arms.


4.Lips speak in pulses,
not of lust but devotion—
a fire held soft.


5.After the closeness,
I wear your gaze like a shawl—
quiet and complete.

With each tick of the clock, seasons quietly bend,
Every storm that came and went, left behind a friend.

The sunlit land now shivers under snow’s command,
Where warm winds once whispered love, silence now stands.

Golden leaves spoke softly, of life and its tide,
Even fruits lost their sweetness, as time passed by.

Once smooth and tender, their skins now cracked and dry,
The days grow shorter, and love asks why.

If only I had sown a garden, with these fleeting days,
Cradled each moment softly, like colors in sun rays.

Had I only watered the leaves, kept them green with care,
Saved them from curling dry, held them in prayer.

I should’ve tasted the fruit, while it still held light,
Wrapped it in shade, before it faded from sight.

In age or youth, I’d hold them close and tight,
Cover them in warmth, before the cold took flight.

Just once more, I wish time would be kind,
Let us dance, sing, leave the past behind.

For this life was never mine alone to see—
It was always ours, our shared destiny.

My love is an ocean—
not for sailing, but drowning.
Each wave bears the weight of ache,
salted with longing and reverence.

Rivers of devotion spill from my ribs,
carving your name into stone
with hands that bleed faith.

And if time grinds it down to sand,
let it become a sacred shore—
where our echoes shape the tides,
where memory breathes in seafoam,
and only we remain—
bare, eternal, mythic.

What if you changed, like the seasons I feared?
What if love passed quicker, like weather, unclear?
What if you swayed toward a better scent in the air—
And left behind my sand art, made for you with care?

My doubts were carved by storms of the past,
Etched deep by hands that never did last.
Were you like them, too? A passing face?
But you weren’t.
Why?

Do you love me that much?

You didn’t change.
You lit your moonlight on me in the blaze of June,
Made my days bright like a midday tune.
You dusted trust across the snowfall's hush—
And somehow, that cold began to blush.

In spring, we planted memories with bare, open hands,
Shed old scars like the tide letting go of broken shells on the sand.
You whispered:
"You're the rarest scent—I breathe you in,"
"Not just a creation, you’re my one true skin."
"You’re not just art—you’re the only art I ever knew,"
"Ours was no accident—ocean currents drew me to you."

If you dream of a car lined in gold,
let it be a chariot for your heart —
not a trumpet for strangers' eyes.
Let the engine hum in silence,
as you drive through moments that matter.

Park it where laughter lives,
where your child clutches your hand,
where your mother rests her tired bones
and smiles, not at the car, but at you.

Don’t raise your children to crave mirrors —
raise them to be flames.
To build their own wheels of purpose,
to carry light, not noise.

Status is a mirage —
glimmering in heat, vanishing at dusk.
But kindness?
Kindness leaves tire marks on time.

Let your legacy be not the car you drove,
but the lives you moved,
the roads you built
for those still walking barefoot.

I’m just a teen,
threading my heart into words—
dropping verses like fallen leaves
for no one,
and everyone
to find.

But you—
you arrive like a winter wind in summer.
Real as breath on glass.
Fragile as something that cracked quietly...
and stayed standing.

You bring your ache
with open hands.
Not hiding the weight.
Like someone carrying rain
in a woven basket—
just to prove
the storm had shape.

This space?
It was empty once.
Just pixels.
Just silence.

Now it hums.
You made it holy.
You made it human.

And somehow,
I’m not just typing.
I’m sitting beside you,
barefoot in your storm—
offering nothing
but presence
and the softest kind of light.

If the world feels locked…
If understanding hangs
like fog just out of reach…
If today is slow,
and soft,
and sad...

Let this be a whisper:

🕊️
You are not alone in the ache.
You are not too much.
Your sadness is not silence—
it’s a song too pure
for anyone
who forgot
how to listen.

You don’t have to rise like the sun each day—
some mornings, it's enough just to open your eyes,
to sit with the silence,
to feel your heartbeat and whisper, “I’m still here.”

You are not the storm that passed,
nor the ruins it left behind.
You are the seed under the soil,
waiting for the right rain,
the quiet miracle of a soul not giving up.

Let no one shame the pace of your healing.
Let no voice drown out the hush of your trying.
Because surviving is not small.
And breathing, on hard days,
is a kind of bravery the world forgets to praise.

So rest, dreamer.
You don’t need to shine tonight.
You just need to stay—
soft, alive,
and wildly worthy of tomorrow.

Get up. Clear your desk and sit on that table like it’s your throne.
Are the crows sitting idle around you too noisy?
It's because your crown’s reflection burns through their nerves.
Failure? It’s poison dressed as medicine.
Makes you gag, makes you want to quit.
But every drop trains your soul to survive.
You called the storm—now wear the scars.
Own your failure.
Its scars will be the secret architecture of your future glory.

Flesh or fruit—what's your feast?
The forest doesn't ask, the jungle doesn’t preach.
It kills. It eats. It sleeps.
No courtroom. No guilt. No peace.

We **** too.
But with suits.
With fear.
With scars.

Some **** to live. Some live to ****.
A lion tears flesh.
We sign deals.
Which one's worse?

They prey. Not ******.
We ******. Then pray.

Is that justice...
Or just instinct in disguise?

Nature doesn’t ask why.
It simply survives.
But us?
We decorate our hunger…
…and call it power.

I pulled you in as the flames rose higher,
your breath crackling like broken glass.
You didn’t cry out — just trembled,
a soul unraveling under its own mass.

You were burning —
not metaphorically,
but truly, desperately alight.
Still, I wrapped my arms around you
as if love could extinguish fright.

I knew I’d blister.
I knew I'd bleed.
But pain is nothing
when guilt feels like need.

Your agony was silent thunder —
a war that raged beneath your skin.
And I, addicted to your chaos,
let it seep through me, let it in.

You didn’t ask to be held that way.
But you didn’t pull away either.
Maybe you needed the lie of comfort
as much as I needed to be the healer.

It’s pleasure wrapped in quiet violence,
a kiss carved from opposing truths.
A soft addiction dressed in longing,
a ghost that dances inside our youth.

A smile carved from shards of sorrow,
a touch that both soothes and stains.
Like drinking beauty from a broken bottle—
sharp, intoxicating, edged with pain.

We are two wounds, aching in rhythm.
One blazing. One begging to burn.
And still I held you,
hoping my ruin might
be the balm you never earned.

Because love, at its worst, is selfish.
And mercy, at times, is cruel.
And I…
I keep hugging the flame
just to feel something brutal.

The season of my love — is it temporary too?
You are the rain — hide me in your arms when I cry.
You are the snowfall — its silence wraps me in warmth.
You are the medicine — healing my bruises without a trace.
Yet I drink you slow, like a tea gone cold —
my hesitation steeped in fear of burning.

I bloomed quietly,
so the world mistook me for a ****.

I comfort you like rain cradles the thirsty earth,
I kiss you like the sunset melts into the ocean’s embrace,
And I would die with you, like a flame fading into the wind—without regret.

Eyeliner of passion, fire for motivation,
I carve my name on the stone of salvation.
The gem in my ring gleams brighter than day—
A mirror of me, blazing my way.

The traitors cry as I rise, pulling knives from my back,
Let them yap—clearly, I’ve got what they lack.
I don’t care now—my silence is stitched
With the kind of success even their heirs can’t eclipse.

My niche on this earth was carved at birth,
A soul too sharp for this cowardly world.
Mother bore more than a child—she bore a flame,
And nature crowned her brave, giving my name.

Let the dogs bark; they won't cry when I'm gone.
I live for her—she’s the reason I’m strong.
Forget the world, their noise, their bother—
I fight for one: she’s the mother.

My train winds through a cavern of silence—
a tunnel carved from doubt and dusk.
This is only a phase,
but it feels endless.

At each station, someone boards.
Strangers. Friends. Faces I once trusted.
Some stay for a while,
some leave too soon—
passengers, not meant for the whole journey.

But not all who ride are kind.

Some wear masks of flesh,
but move like ghosts—
zombies with eyes that pierce,
not see.

They don’t ask who I am.
They tell me who I should be.
"You're too much."
"You're not enough."
"Be like us."

Their words are weapons:
criticism,
comparison,
judgment sharp as bone.
They tried to wound me
with their version of truth.

And yes, I bled.
But I did not break.

They got off—
just as quietly as they came.
Left behind their echoes,
but not their power.

And I remained.
Human.
Moving forward.

Because this train is mine—
my life, my path.
And every stop,
every scar,
is proof I kept going.

I reached my station—
not perfect, but free.
Not whole, but real.
Scarred, but alive.

I look in the mirror — I’m unlike anyone else.
The rarest gem on Earth, there's no one quite like me.
Each day I polish my edges, climb higher, rise stronger.
My reflection glows with aura, resilience, and shine.
Every part of me speaks of strength — and so do you.
You're not weak — you've just forgotten your power.

War is a ravenous shadow,
devouring fields like empty mouths,
where guilt grows thick as poison ivy—
wrapping bones in silent blame,
each step heavier with echoes of those left behind.

Loss is a choir of vanished voices,
singing through shattered breath,
their names carved into the wind,
fading like stars swallowed by the dawn.

Hunger is a serpent coiled in the belly,
licking empty caves where hope once slept,
forcing hands to feast on leaves—
bitter prayers swallowed in green desperation,
and worse, a communion of shadows devouring themselves.

War is a broken mirror cracked by famine—
reflecting faces twisted by grief,
where the hunger for survival
turns flesh to ash,
and kin to ghost.

In this feast of ruin,
the heart becomes both hunter and hunted,
feeding on memories,
starving for peace—
a feast with no end,
only the hollow taste of loss

Desire bleeds beneath my skin, your name a silent flame,
I’m falling through the shadows, caught inside your dangerous game.
Lust wears the mask of innocence, but I see the truth behind,
Carving my name into your bones, a fate that’s intertwined.

The air ignites around us, fire tangled in the night,
You are the grey-lit sky — cold, distant, yet burning bright.
Moonstruck and broken, lost inside your endless storm,
A fatal craving pulls me close, where love and poison form.

My veins…
they surge with crimson tides.

I open my mouth,
but the words—
they tremble.
Like saying this
might alter the universe.

I gave you everything.
My heart.
My fire.
My truth.

Will you hold it—
or let it fall?
Will you keep it warm—
or crush it all?

They call me a fool.
"Move on," they say.
"She’s not your oxygen."

But how do I pull out a knife
that’s already buried deep?
How do I stop the bleeding
when I never stopped the love?

I walked through fire,
faced storms with no name.
Fought the world
just to whisper yours.

Every scar I wear
is a vow.
Every tear—
a story where you're the page.

Will you stay?
Or am I just static
in the background of your life?

Even if it tears me down,
I'll never curse you.
Never.

No grudge.
No bitterness.
Just this aching, open wound
called love.

I will be Romeo.
I’ll die calling your name.
Adoring you from a distance,
Cradling your ghost like prayer.

But I’ll never force you
to be Juliet.
Never.

They don’t get it—
I can’t forget.
Loving you is ink
etched in the lines of my breath.

Even if you walk away…
I’ll still love you—
loud,
raw,
and whole—

Until my dying day.

Hearts weave without shame,
Love blooms beyond bounds and norms,
Free to simply be.


Hearts weave without shame,
Love blooms beyond bounds and norms,
Free to simply be.

Your skin drinks moonlight—
my breath fans the quiet flames,
we burn, bound by stars.

I feel your light as my own, together we ignite.


Still waters awake
when your shadow moves with grace—
my silence sings back.

I dance in your calm, your presence stirs my soul.


I am born for you—
shaped from light your heart once called,
the stars hold their breath.

You are my dream made real, a prayer answered in light.


Let me be the wind
that fans your glowing ember—
your longing is mine.

I breathe life into your fire, our desires entwined.


Dust turns to gold here—
with each touch, time melts away,
heaven lies in us.

In your hands, even earth becomes sacred and divine.

I need no chariots of gleaming steel,
Nor crowns forged in the showroom’s zeal.
My wealth is woven in quiet threads—
The softest light where family treads.

A mother’s warmth, a hearth’s embrace,
More precious than a gilded chase.
Sister’s laughter, like a gentle stream,
Flows richer than a polished dream.

While others race in chrome and fire,
I walk through fields of humble desire.
Where simple moments bloom and grow—
There lies the treasure only I know..

You are the wind that circles me—unseen, yet deeply felt.
I marvel at your dance, like leaves caught in your rhythm.
You were the first ripple on my still waters—
a fleeting droplet that stirred my quiet sadness into something like joy.

You were the distant star I traced with wonder,
your brilliance making my gaze flinch,
yet I kept looking, drawn by a silent hope.

You are the lone pearl gleaming in an endless ocean—
the only one I ever wished to hold.
You are the forest where I long to rest,
your canopy my refuge.

The sunlight that filters through your branches—
those are the moments that touch me,
warm and golden, brief yet eternal.

When the moon spills silver into the bruised sky,
I spill into you—mind, body, soul—
a surrender without hesitation.
I navigate your body like sacred scripture,
every curve a verse I’ve recited in whispers,
every sigh an answer I crave to relearn.

You are my favorite subject—
not meant to be mastered,
only studied with trembling devotion,
worshipped in the quiet hunger between breaths.

Emotion bleeds its ink, scoring jagged veins on thought’s frail parchment.
My thoughts—quiet blasts in the stillness of a shattered chamber.
Dread drifts like algae through unmoving air,
As spiders weave ghost-webs from the silk strands of unraveling memory.
Turbulence scripts the scene—Act VII: a ballet of fury, danced in tears.

I drank the lullabies of serpents,
Each note laced in honeyed deceit.
They slithered through the cracks of need,
Whispering warmth with daggered teeth.

I bowed to beasts with broken tongues,
Their barks were sermons in the dark.
I lit my soul to guide their way—
They left me stranded, cold and marked.

Beneath a quilt of dying wool,
I watched the hearth devour its kin.
The logs wept smoke and split in grief,
Still burning, just to warm my skin.

Each morning, lips to bitter brew,
Each night, a toast to battles lost.
The bruised crescents beneath my eyes
Are trophies crowned by what they cost.

“Was it worth it?”—a prayerless cry
To gods who watched and never came.
The mirror grins, a beast reborn,
Whispers, “Now, we play the game.”

I peeled away the past they burned,
Revealed a skin they’ll never know.
No longer just my suffering—
I am the storm their seeds will sow.

He built the walls.
He locked the doors.
He feared the death
That walks outdoors.

He feared the streets,
The plague, the knife—
Not the glass chandelier
That took his life.

The brightest light,
The grandest art—
The most beautiful thing
Broke his heart.


---

I don’t write poems—
I bleed in metaphors,
Breathe in verses,
And let ink sleep on my pages.

Whisper its name,
And it wakes in shadows,
Speaking the silence I once loved—
A silence I taught to speak in poetry.

They call it poetry,
But I call it fire—
The fire that keeps me alive.

Poetry is the soul’s oldest language,
And mine has never stopped speaking.

When my lips fall silent,
My heart spills in stanzas.
When my voice trembles,
My pen takes flight.

Some feelings are too heavy for words—
So I let them fall as verses.

Poetry is the oldest art of truth,
Woven into every soul,
Revealing not just what we feel,
But who we truly are.

Within each verse lies a heart unveiled,
Where passion and truth
Entwine eternal.

Shadows dissolve where silence takes hold—
So do people,
tamed by the dark,
ghosts draped in marigold.

Chains of humility, lacquered and new,
Disguised as virtue,
cling like dew—
shimmering, choking,
beautifully untrue.

Beware the gold-plated gospel they preach:
Their words are mirrors,
sharp at the breach.
They buff your shackles 'til they gleam—
And call it freedom,
call it dream.

Are these the mourners with practiced sighs,
Wringing grief from unopened eyes?
They spray on sorrow like perfume mist,
Never flinching
when your shadows kissed.

And you—yes, you—celestial flare,
A signature soul,
singular, rare.
Who are they to judge your flame,
Then vanish,
maskless,
without name?

This life is no script, no dainty refrain—
It’s cliff-edge breath,
storm-fed pain.
Let them twist and trace your form,
But know:
your chaos is your norm.

So rise—not gentle,
not as planned.
Unwrite the laws they understand.
You are the wild the world can’t mold—
A truth too loud,
a myth retold.

I hear them—
the sheep in their scripted refrain:
"Lower your gaze. Stay in your lane.
Blend with the flock, bury your flame—
No need for thunder. No need for name."

But I remember the ones who walked unbowed,
Eyes like storms,
souls too loud.
They taught me not to kneel, but rise,
To tear the silence,
to scorch the skies.

Don’t flow like water through cracks they choose,
A shape that fits
is a self you lose.
Be wind—ravenous, rough, untamed,
A force with no leash,
no master,
no name.

If they seal you in a space too tight,
Too small for soul,
too dim for light—
Split it open. Let rage ignite.
Turn your whisper into a war-cry flight.

This is your voice:
not meek, not borrowed.
A sun that sears
through every sorrow.
If breath still burns within your chest,
Roar, rebel—
be nothing less.

Carve your path through dusk and scar.
You are the blaze.
You are the star.

You are bamboo—
slow to grow, strong for life.
You are jasmine—
delicate, fragrant, real.
Both are needed.

And you?
You’re here.
Still blooming.
Still meant to be.

And me?
Just a human
catching his thoughts like fireflies—
watching them glow
on paper.

Was it hard?
The flower releases countless grains,
Hoping just one finds its way—
Did you give your best?
Even water, pure and sure,
Sometimes slips into a drain, led astray.

Was it hard to leave your home?
The dandelion must,
To ride the wind and touch the sky.
Were you too comfortable to change?
Snakes ache while shedding skin,
Eagles break their beaks to survive.

Did you fail this time?
Be gentle—
Even caterpillars must fall still
Before they learn to fly.
Mock tests precede the final day,
It’s the cycle—harsh, yet true.

My inner child died in silence—
rotting deep inside.

I burned him with my own fire,
a desperate, hopeless blaze.

Music weeps a funeral song,
while my mind crashes in flames.

I am empty now—
a hollow shell,
broken beyond repair.

They say love needs no reason—
but with you,
I have endless ones.
Your body, a poem God took his time to write.
Your eyes—black holes—
I fall in, lose myself,
and never want to be found.
You are nature’s desire,
and mine.

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.