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

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

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 shiver, the cold bites deep,
The world an open book—its lessons steep.
It whispers, You must not be you,
Yet mocks when doubt clouds my view.

They judge, yet say, Oh, just don’t care!
If it’s so simple, then why not dare?
I know—I swear—it is not my crime,
To defy the mold, to stretch past time.

I will rise, a tempest untamed,
Like the moon that calls the sea unnamed.
Not a thief of borrowed light,
But a fire that burns through endless night.

Underdogs walk with voices hushed,
Not for lack of spark, but trust—
For even silence shapes the great,
A force unseen, yet sealing fate.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The sky hangs low, heavy with sorrow, A shroud of dying light swallowed by dusk. The road stretches endless, ink-black and cold, A path carved from shadows, whispering loss.

Once, I feared losing— Now, the weight of loss has hollowed me out. My heart, a withered leaf, bends toward the earth, Too heavy to lift, too broken to mend.

The ailing earth bears its desiccation wounds, Silent cracks gaping like a mouth that forgot how to weep. Beneath, the tears fester, trapped in roots of grief. Above, the clouds swell, burdened with unwept sobs.

Little did the mist know— That sorrow shared does not make it lesser. Little did the earth know— That to weep is not to wither.

The laughter of yesterday lies buried, untouched, Ghosts of joy sleeping in graves of time. Memories drift in vapor, unclaimed echoes, Carried away by the wind, never to return whole.

Two roses once stood, entwined in silent promise— To shield, to stay, to survive. Now, brittle petals crumble into the dirt, Wilted souls crossing death’s threshold together.

Little did the mist or the earth know— The roses loved them too. Yet even as they withered, they clung, fierce, Their last wish: to leave behind nothing, Not even the pain they carried.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I waltz with the wind, a feather so free,
Pirouette past judgment—none sticks to me.
They call me a loner, a drifting tune,
But I’m just a comet, outpacing the moon.

The sun tips its hat, “Hey, how do you do?”
I wink and say, “Shining—just like you.”
The mist slinks close, all broody and blue,
I twirl through its whispers—sorry, not you!

The world hands me a rulebook, thick as a wall,
I turn it to paper planes—watch them all fall.
They build their castles on standards tall,
I carve out my kingdom where stardust calls.

Born in June, kissed by June’s breeze,
I hum my own song through the rustling trees.
I tango with raindrops, flirt with the sky,
A runaway melody, too bold to comply.

They nudge, “You must be living a dream!”
I sip my tea, let out some steam—
“A dream? Oh dear, if only you knew,
It’s just me, my pen, and a sky so blue.”

No filters, no frames, just ink that flows,
Dancing through life—however it goes.

I don’t have what they call success,
But that doesn’t make me any less.
I walk a path that’s mine to pave,
A different way—a road I'm brave.

No paper defines the worth I hold,
No stamp, no seal, no weight of gold.
Nothing to lose, nothing to fear,
I stand my ground, my vision clear.

I won’t fall begging for their boots,
I won’t steal—I’ll grow my roots.
Hard work builds, while greed decays,
I’ll walk the honest, brighter ways.

I fear no gods, but deeds gone wrong,
No villain’s path, no hero’s song.
I won’t be shaped by how they see,
I am the lead—my life, my key.

Their words can’t shake what I define,
I breathe, I stand, the sky is mine.
One day, I’ll rise, I’ll claim my place,
Their doubts won’t reach my guarded space.

I am not my past, nor sins before,
Not bound by blood that schemed for more.
I am the fearless, standing tall,
Unfazed by loss, untouched by fall.

I died the day I came alive,
Yet here I stand, I burn, I thrive.
The monster I once feared to be,
Now walks with pride—now walks as me.

A blue bloom where red ones grow,
Unfit for them, yet strong, I glow.
Let them judge, let whispers swirl,
I love myself—that shakes their world.

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.

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.

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.

When the weight of the patriarchy presses on my shoulders,
when my body bleeds in cycles, when birth is a battlefield,
I wonder—will they **** it if it’s a girl?
The book has its rules—were they ever just?
If justice lived in ink, I wouldn’t be writing this poem.

She cries, but her tears freeze—
a cold society, a colder breeze.
Whispers coil around her ankles after divorce,
judgment sharper than the wind.

The mother walks alone, carrying a piece of her body,
a universe cradled in tired arms.
She whispers, I will not let them trap you in this abyss,
my little beauty, my little star.

She walks, even when weary,
nurturing the seed she always admired.
The man left her,
just as he left another daughter.

Who gave him the power?
Neither God nor the constitution,
but the heavy hand of society’s blind tradition.

Yet the mother stands—iron-hearted, unbreakable.
She tends her garden with calloused hands,
waters her children with love,
lets them bloom beneath a sun that others have long forgotten.

Still, the world turns on its irony:
the kind-hearted walk on shards of glass,
while snakes sip wine from Bordeaux crystal.

They call it balance—
give and take, they say.
Yet a woman always pays the price
for the desires of men.

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.

The one who stands unwavering,
Through every storm and restless tide,
Who turns your troubles into whispers,
And wipes your tears with pride.

She works in silence, day and night,
So you can rise and shine,
A beacon in your darkest hours,
Her love, the brightest light.

In a world of false promises,
She is the one true vow,
A rare rose without a thorn,
Blooming where no others grow.

She walks barefoot on shattered glass,
Clearing every jagged piece,
Bearing wounds she never shows,
So your path remains at peace.

She is careless when it comes to herself,
But careful when it’s you,
She carries your worries like her own,
And makes the heavy feel light too.

She pushes you beyond your limits,
So you never fear the test,
For life will throw its hardest trials,
And she’ll make sure you’re prepared best.

You’ll never know the weight she bears,
Unless you stand where she once stood,
She breaks the walls of fear and doubt,
And turns them into something good.

She shields you when the cold winds blow,
Yet never asks for warmth in return,
She gives, she bends, she quietly breaks—
Yet asks for nothing in return.

Yes, I speak of your greatest warrior,
The one who makes you strong,
The iron woman, the gentle light—
Your mother, all along.

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.

When do you think was the last time we hugged?
When do you think was the last time we kissed and cuddled?
Yeah, it hasn't been so many days,
But trust me, I’m already breaking in a thousand ways.
Don’t — don’t just walk in front of me,
You’re my neighbor, and it’s killing me.
Why did it have to end like this?
Was I not as pretty as the other girls you kissed?
Why did you break my heart like it was nothing?
Are you even human to hurt me this stunningly?
You changed the way I looked at the world,
The flower bloomed, new to the world.
It only knew warmth, like a mother's care,
It never imagined cruelty could be there.
But now the petals wither, no light, no rain,
And you call it "exaggerating" — was love just a game?
Then I know… you never knew love.
I saw you at the same café, sipping cappuccino,
You looked through me like I was a ghost you used to know.
Was I not kind enough, not sweet enough to taste?
Did the pancakes I made feel like a bitter mistake?
The scarf I knitted with love — did it not warm you through?
Did I ever mean anything to you?
They say drugs are the worst addiction,
But you were worse — a pain with no prescription.
The love I gave — pure and kind,
Now the lens I see the world through is painfully blind.
Even if I heal, I know one thing for sure…
The scars you left, love won’t ever cure.
They say drugs are the worst addiction,
But you were worse — a pain with no prescription.
The love I gave — pure and kind,
Now the lens I see the world through is painfully blind.
Even if I heal, I know one thing for sure…
The scars you left, love won’t ever cure.
The flower never knew the world could be cruel,
It thought love was pure, but you broke every rule.
And now the bloom has faded, like a dream undone,
But you’ll never know love — because you never loved anyone.
I might move on, someday, I swear…
But the damage in my heart? — No love can repair.

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

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.

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.

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.

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’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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.