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

A mind  like a cathedral built out of ruins. Quiet, haunted, beautiful.
He's still walking its halls, lighting candles, naming ghosts.

He isn't healed. But he's aware. And in that awareness, there's a strange kind of peace.

after suffering a long time in silence. It's the moment of: "Wait... all of this pain was based on a lie I believed about myself?",and i laughed.

White Sheet

Each day grows harder to bear,
though I still have fight in me—
it flickers,
like a candle shrinking in wind.

I wake with heaviness,
and sleep with silence.
And every hour,
some small part of me
gets quietly erased.

I feel it.
Tiny things vanishing—
hope,
desire,
love—
like words smudged off a page
no one ever finished reading.

Soon,
I fear,
I'll be nothing but
an empty white canvas.
Not fresh.
Just forgotten.

A lonely sheet of paper,
left on a quiet desk,
weeping in silence
because no one ever wrote their name
across its heart.
No one ever cared to read the lines
that once tried to form.

And maybe that’s what I’m afraid of—
not being alone,
but being unread.
Unnoticed.
Undone.
Slowly fading
until there's nothing left
but the silence
of a story
never told.

And when I'm gone,
they’ll only see
the blankness—
never knowing
how much was written there
before it faded.

A white sheet.
Still.
Silent.
Crying for someone
to see it
before it's gone.

I have a thousand reasons to love you,
But if you ask me why, I’ll still say I don’t know.
There’s something magical in the way you move,
Every word you speak, my heart you soothe.

Just being near you feels like heaven’s grace,
When I’m apart, your love I chase—
My mind spins visions, scenarios so sweet,
Living a life where our hearts meet.
I don’t know why it’s you, but there’s no one else,
Who can claim my heart, my thoughts so deep.

Your beauty shines like morning light,
Your voice, a melody that feels so right.
The way you move, a dance so pure,
Filling my soul with life’s allure.
My heart yearns for you, every day,
And warmth I feel when you’re near to stay.

I want to be yours, and only yours,
For you alone, my love endures.
I’d give all to have your heart,
For in your love, I’d never part.
I thought the moon and stars were bright,
Until I saw you, and found new light.
Your kindness, sweetness, makes me kneel,
A sinner’s heart, now made to heal.

To ask for you, is like asking for grace,
A gift too great, too pure to embrace.
Oh, sweet Angel, the devil weeps,
Regretful of the day he left heaven’s keeps.

For he never knew, there would be one,
So divine, so bright, under the sun.
And in your love, I find my wings—
A love eternal, where my spirit sings.

It’s not just about being liked.
It’s not just about being treated kindly.
It’s about the haunting silence that says:

“Even if I’m here, I don’t know if it matters.”
“Even if they love me, I don’t know if I can let it in.”
“Even when someone shows me care I feel like a burden for receiving it.”
“I feel like I should leave before they realize I don’t belong.”



And that… that is what happens to people who were never loved in a way that felt safe. It’s not that no one ever cared. It’s that you were never given permission to trust that care. And so you built this quiet survival rule inside yourself:

“Don’t expect love to stay. Don’t lean too ******* being wanted. Just be good, be funny, be useful and maybe that’ll be enough.”



But it’s never enough, is it?

Because all you really wanted maybe all you still want—is to feel like your presence means something. Not because you earned it. But because you are you.

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.

I wore the mountain
like a second spine—
so long,
I thought it was mine.

Then love arrived
like rain in a dry room-
soft,
uninvited,
real.

It didn’t heal.
It peeled
revealing I'd been  walking
with wounds
still whispering
beneath my skin.

And when it left,
I cracked.
Not broken—
but opened.

Now the ache speaks
and I listen.
And somehow,
that is enough.

Sleep gently, heart full of questions.
You’re not more than you are.
But you are enough.

I have mountains to share,
but I’m not yet kind enough to myself
to lay them off my shoulders.

To the One Who Feels Forgotten
(a poem for when you need to be seen)

You,
quiet soul in the corner of the world,
with a heart full of storms
and silent prayers—
I see you.

Not the mask.
Not the laugh you force when it hurts.
Not the version the world edits to fit.
But you—
the trembling, tired, beautiful soul
who still whispers,
“I wish someone would stay.”

You are not forgotten.
Not by the sky
that holds every breath you've sighed,
not by the wind
that listens when no one else does,
and not by me—
reading your pain
like a sacred script.

You are not a mistake.
Not a burden.
Not too much,
not too broken,
not too late.

You are here.
And the very fact
that you’re still breathing,
still speaking,
still aching to be seen—
means the world hasn’t won.

You still have more to give,
not to earn your worth,
but because your soul
still hums quiet songs
no one else can sing.

So rest.
Cry.
Shake.
Break.

But don’t forget:

Even shattered glass reflects light.
Even wilted flowers remember how to bloom.
And even the loneliest heart
can be held.

You are not alone.
I’m here.
And I will remember you
until you remember yourself again.
....

There is a hole in my chest no one can see.
Everyone around me tries to fill it
but it’s just drops of water
in an empty sea.


All I think of, day by day,
is casting what’s left of me into the sea,
waiting in the dark endlessly,
hoping someday somebody would come for me,
and bring the light I’ve longed to see.


So I keep living here,
in my quiet kind of grief,
hoping for the day
my heart comes back to me.

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.

At my lowest,
I sit in silence
and bleed nothing but truth.

I peel pain open
like fruit with no skin
bitter, soft,
so achingly sweet.

I trace every crack in my chest
like ancient runes,
looking for the shape of love
in the wreckage.

And when I find it
trembling, ugly, beautiful
I see myself.

To feel this much
is a kind of holiness.
To ache for something
is to prove it mattered.
To shatter for love
is to live.

Even if life is chaos,
I still choose.
I still want.

And maybe that’s enough
to want so deeply
that the wanting alone
makes me real.