Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
ADoolE Jul 16
The wind had stilled.
The world no longer trembled.
And in the hush of a moment that didn’t rush,
the boy walked to the guardian.

Not as a whisper.
Not as a ghost.
But as a soul finally ready to be seen.

His small hand, trembling and warm, reached for the guardian’s.
The man flinched at first—
not from fear, but from disbelief.

“I saw it,” the boy whispered. “Everything she saw in you… I saw it too.”

The guardian blinked, as if light had touched a part of him long buried.

“You are full of colors,” the boy said, smiling through wet eyes.
“Bright ones. Soft ones. Scars that still shine.
And you don’t have to carry that heavy armor anymore.”

The guardian looked down at the shield strapped to his arm.
It had always been there, forged from guilt, duty, silence.
He let it fall.
The clang was gentle—like a stone returning to the earth.

The boy placed a hand on the guardian’s chest.
“I’m here with you now.
We can breathe together.
Finally.”

And they did.

In and out.
Slow and steady.
A shared breath, long denied, now alive.

And with each inhale, something opened.
And with each exhale, something softened.

The boy no longer needed to hide in the shadows of memory.
The guardian no longer needed to be the last one standing.

They had found each other.
And together, they stepped forward—
not as fragments,
but as one whole being
who had just learned
they were allowed to live.
This story changed—
or maybe I did.
Or maybe it was the guardian and the boy who finally found each other.

But the truth is:
None of this would exist without someone special.
Someone wonderful.
Someone truly unique—
like the stars and the moon in the sky,
like the sun and its light.

She saw something in me that I had long forgotten,
and because of that,
I will forever be grateful for her.

You are more wonderful than any words can ever express.
ADoolE Jul 11
There once was a boy
with wonder in his bones,
soft little palms,
and a name never known—
not spoken with love,
nor held in the air—
just drifting through silence,
unseen, unaware.

The child didn’t vanish—
he learned how to hide.
He buried his spirit
somewhere deep inside.
He sang into silence,
so no one would know
that he walked without crying
through cold winds that blow.

And so came the Guardian—
not born out of might,
but forged out of fear
in the absence of light.
He stood like a shadow,
a sentinel still,
not asking for thanks—
only bending his will.

He built a quiet world,
where danger might rise.
He braced for the heartbreak,
learned silence replies.
He learned how to flinch
before words could land,
to spot every wound
before it was planned.

He wrapped up his pain
in layers unseen,
turned sorrow to insight
and called it routine.
He smoked when he felt numb,
watched hours drift by,
told himself “It’s okay”—
though he knew it’s a lie.

For armor can guard,
but it cannot grow.
It cannot feel love,
only weather the blow.
He was built not to dream,
nor to live, nor to hold—
but to shield the soft heart
from a world harsh and cold.

But the years moved along—
and the boy stirred within,
pressed his hand to the ribs
and whispered through skin:
“Is it safe yet?” he asked,
his voice faint and low.
The Guardian paused—
unsure how to let go.

“I don’t want protection.
I just want to be held.
I want to stop hiding,
to feel, to be well.”

And the Guardian answered,
his voice soft with pain:
“Not yet. Not yet.”
He repeated again.

But the words broke his silence—
he felt them ring true.
He had saved the young boy…
but locked his soul too.

And all he endured—
every scar, every fight,
now felt like a prison
that blocked out the light.
He wept not from failing,
but from being the wall—
from bearing the burden
that now must fall.

He was not the enemy.
He was the stay.
The quiet protector
who never walked away.
He carried the silence,
absorbed every blow,
while the boy learned to breathe
and to quietly grow.

But now, the world softens.
The war starts to cease.
And the Guardian stands
with no use for peace.
His armor, once noble,
now hangs like a weight—
a testament carved
by sorrow and fate.

He doesn’t regret it.
But he doesn’t know how
to stop being the shield
and just be here now.

And inside the silence,
the child still waits,
watching the doors,
watching the gates.

Hoping one day,
when the storms all subside,
he'll come to the Guardian,
stand by his side,

look in his eyes
with love—soft and true—
and say:
“You didn’t fail me.
You carried me through.
But now, it’s my turn.
I’ll take the next breath.
You’ve guarded enough—
you can rest.”

And maybe—
for the first time since all this began—
they dream not of safety…
but of sunlight again.
ADoolE Jul 11
But I’m selfish—
even with myself.
What if I no longer wish to roam?
What if I’m tired
of digging through fire
just to find a softer home?

Tell me—
what does it mean
when someone won’t let go of love,
even when it breaks their bones,
even when the sky above
has given every reason
to move on?

Not because they’re lost,
but because they chose.

Because I chose a piece—
no matter how it fits.
Even if it cuts,
I won’t call it quits.
Even if it’s sharp
and tears through my chest,
I carry it still—
because I loved it best.

It wasn’t perfect,
but it was mine somehow.
So I hold it close,
like a quiet vow.

Is happiness in seeking
what finally fits?
Or is it in keeping
what never quits?

I can’t tell
if I’m betraying my soul
or finally making myself whole.
That’s the echo I hear
in the quietest part—
not a question,
but a stubborn heart.

A name I won’t forget.
A light that won’t depart.
A feeling that lingers,
sharp and true—
and still,
I carry you.
  Jul 10 ADoolE
Rose Yet To Bloom
I found my sanctuary
In the bottomless, raging sea.
I sank as I grew weary —
Reached its bottom with my bare feet.

Free of motion,
Evading commotion,
Ceasing devotion,
Dreading demotion.

This is a resignation;
I serenely grow my gills —
Neither weakness nor damnation,
Just a soul worn out from flotation.
  Jul 6 ADoolE
Stardust
Why do we become blind,
When we love someone so?
And blind again with hate,
When we let it grow?

We see no flaw in one,
And only flaws in some.
Why do our hearts so easily
Make our minds its gun?
I was just wondering why I sometimes turn into a fairy tale character for someone—kind, idealistic—while at other times I feel like the foul-mouthed villain’s right-hand man, caught in loud spats. But I'm trying to find a balance, to control my emotions and not get swept away by their intensity. After all, emotions come and go.
ADoolE Jul 6
It’s no surprise
that kindness feels so sweet
when you’ve been starving ,
even crumbs are a treat.

It’s easy to miss,
but the truth is this:
a little kindness
can feel like bliss
Next page