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In a world devoid of meaning, she wandered alone,
A soul forsaken, lost in the void, a heart of stone.
Her eyes, once bright, now dimmed, like stars in the night,
Reflecting the emptiness that consumed her light.

She walked with steps of lead, her feet heavy with despair,
Her laughter a hollow echo, her hopes a distant, fading air.
Time, like a thief, stole away her dreams, leaving only ash,
And darkness crept in, a slow and silent crash.

It didn't come all at once, but trickled in like sand,
Grain by grain, until the light was lost in the land.
Her smile, a forced and fragile thing, like a blade held sideways,
Couldn't pierce the shadows that enveloped her, like a shroud that wouldn't fade.

She didn't scream, she didn't cry, she simply stopped shining,
Her light extinguished, like a flame that's lost its spark, its meaning.
The world around her lost its shape, its color, its sound,
And she was left with nothing, but the echoes of a hollow ground.

But then, one day, an ember appeared, a spark of light,
A small, yet fierce, flame that flickered in the dark of night.
It didn't promise, it didn't call, it simply existed,
A tiny, glowing point, that beckoned her to follow, to resist.

She reached out, with a hand she thought was lost,
And touched the ember, feeling its warmth, its gentle cost.
It didn't move away, it didn't fade, it stayed,
A steady, pulsing light, that guided her through the shades.

She followed, step by step, through memories like thorns,
Through fear like fog, that shrouded her, and kept her from being reborn.
The ember led her, through the dark, through the pain,
Until she saw, a glimmer of light, a world reborn, a new refrain.

The darkness peeled back, like a curtain, like a veil,
And air, sweet, warm, alive, brushed against her skin, like a gentle gale.
She blinked, and the world bloomed, like a garden in spring,
Colors she had never seen, spilled from the sky, like a rainbow's wing.

She stood, trembling, on the edge of something new,
A world of wonder, a world of beauty, a world anew.
And there, in the gold-soft hush of morning, she met a heart,
A heart as gentle, as soothing, as the morning breeze, a brand new start.

He didn't ask for her story, he just listened to the silence,
Between her words, where the truth resided, where the pain existed.
He didn't try to fix the cracks, he just held them, like a work of art,
And showed her, that even broken, she was beautiful, a masterpiece, a work in progress, a brand new start.

His laughter was rain on a window, his voice, a gentle stream,
That flowed through her, like a river, and washed away her pain, her scream.
His eyes, like the morning sun, shone bright, and warm, and kind,
And when he smiled at her, she saw herself, reflected, redefined.

She, who once flinched from affection, like a wounded thing,
Now leaned toward his kindness, like a flower, that needs the sun's warm wing.
She let herself soften, let her hands learn to hold,
Without shaking, without fear, without the weight of her past, her gold.

He showed her, that love didn't have to be loud,
To be real, to be true, to be a love that's proud.
It could be the quiet way, he stayed, even when she tried to run,
The way he said nothing, when her fear said everything, when her heart was undone.

The way he called her beautiful, not to convince her,
But because he simply saw her, like a work of art, a masterpiece, a treasure to discover.
He saw her, like a sunrise, like a sunset, like a work of art,
A beauty, that's rare, a beauty, that's unique, a beauty, that's a work in progress, a brand new start.

She still gets scared, still waits for the light to leave,
But now, she holds his hand, and the journey, is a different beat.
It's been a journey, of magic, stitched into the mundane,
Of coffee cups, and stargazing, of midnight confessions, and slow dances, in messy kitchens, in the rain.

It's been a journey, of missteps, and meltdowns,
Of moments, she nearly ran, but he was there, to catch her, to hold her, to love her.
He's been there, through it all, through the laughter, and the tears,
Through the fears, and the doubts, through the moments, that seemed to last for
It's a long one, a bit like a story of sorts but I hope you all like it, I got inspired after watching numerous movies in the past two weeks and I've wanted to write based on that.
Hope you all love it and that you all have that special someone in your life
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.
Not every tree gets sunlight. Not every student gets the space to breathe.
In a world obsessed with marks, ranks, and results—some children are quietly breaking.

They smile in the morning, cry at night.
They try to stay strong, thinking of the love that raised them, the sacrifices made for them.
But sometimes, pain becomes louder than love.
Let this be a reminder:
Grades should never cost a life.
Talk to your children. Hold them.
Tell them it’s okay to be tired.
It’s okay to pause.
It’s okay to choose life, even without an A+.
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.
Not every fall makes a sound.
Some just echo inside,quiet, constant.
This one’s for the ones still rising, even when the ground feels like it's giving up first.
A square
is just a circle
that got wise—
refused to keep
spinning.

It learned
to pause
at each point—
filed down the
eternity
into corners—
sometimes
it helps
to have
a space
to lean into.
Old enough
to be your
Grandfather

Young enough
to be your
Friend

Wise enough
to see your
Greatness

Where time
and tide
— depend

(University City: April, 2025)
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