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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.