For who said the warrior is dead,
whose sword once struck him from behind?
For he still stands.
For the war is yet to end.
For I too am a warrior,
fighting on a battlefield
my life is one,
and my thoughts are my sword.
Yet at moments,
this very sword pierces my flesh,
this very blade
blocks my way.
But I am wounded, not dead.
I can be healed, if I try.
I can rise, if I give it all.
I can live, if I accept who I am.
Life is tough,
it is rough.
It hunts your vulnerabilities
pulls you from comfort,
damages what is already damaged.
It plants thoughts
that break you down,
that **** you quietly from within.
And yet, in those defining moments,
it is will that lifts you back up.
It is the same sword that struck my back,
the same blade I call thought,
that I now learn to hold…
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 8:10 AM UTC
It is not death that the most valiant warriors fear,
for it is their own mind that makes them cautious.
For I, too, am a warrior
fighting on a battlefield called life.
My life is the war,
and my thoughts are my sword.
Yet it is not the cruelty life inflicts upon me
that leaves me vulnerable.
It is my own blade, my own thoughts,
that turn inward
and stab my back when I need them most.
Oh, how absurd it once sounded to me
and yet this is the truth that binds me now.
I remember the past,
as vivid as memory allows,
when I lived freely,
unburdened, unafraid.
For there was a time
when I was not a captive
not imprisoned by the very thoughts
that now weigh me down…
Dec 31, 2025
Dec 31, 2025 at 1:40 AM UTC
Who said love was a fugacious thing to have, when for centuries it has left its mark?
I count myself among those people now
for this supposed love has made me its quiet victim.
What is the thing you hide in the beauty of those eyes
the quiet grief of dreams postponed, still hoping to be seen?
I speak these words as a distant admirer,
one who sees the very you and longs, foolishly, to be the repairer.
Your loving nature shaped me into a poet,
a captive left with nothing but a pen and a notebook.
And when I dip my pen into the *** of ink,
the moment it touches paper,
all the page holds is you.
Hair dark as a starless sky,
lips pink as a sky caught blushing,
an expression enchanting with sudden magic,
a mind intuitive and luminous
enough to turn an ordinary day upward.
Something contagious swirls in the air,
as ethereal as it could be,
leaving me helpless smiling and crying all at once.
I cry the symphony of words I carry for her,
sweeter than my mind ever knew how to imagine.
For you, my words are an understatement,
my tongue a disgrace.
Yet my thoughts for you are endless,
and I will keep pouring them into language I barely understand.
In the hopes that one day they might reach you.
Then I could rest my thoughts.
Then I could be content
knowing I shared with you my words,
my Love...
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 12:55 AM UTC
When man begins to fall in the webs of this curse,
He is no longer the man he ever was.
His mind wanders recklessly,
In frantic search of a light
A light so bright it blinds the world.
And yet, despite everything,
He becomes the moth to those tempting rays,
The rays which eventually invite his death.
When a man begins to fall in the webs of this hex,
He is no longer the man they said he ever was.
His days become incomplete.
His life becomes an anchor
An anchor meant to support the life
Of his supposedly significant other.
In spite of knowing he may crumble
And fall to his death, just like the valiant Icarus,
The man who dared to soar high
But at last withered.
But as the saying goes, Icarus was not afraid of death,
For he embraced the heights,
To soar like the creatures of the skies.
For he embraced his inevitable fall,
For he achieved what others could only dream of.
Men in love are no different:
For we dare to soar,
For we dare to love,
For we dare to live.
And in that fragile moment between flight and fall,
he understands...
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 12:28 AM UTC