I walk through rooms that know my name,
Where silence holds me, not to tame.
No need to speak, no need to be
More than the quiet inside of me.

Some chase the crowd to feel alive,
But I, in stillness, breathe and thrive.
They wonder how I stand alone—
But here, I’ve made a world my own.

The stars don’t ask where I have been,
The night just lets me sink within.
No masks to wear, no roles to play,
Just drifting thoughts that choose to stay.

A cup of tea, a half-read page,
A place untouched by noise or rage.
They fear the hush—I call it home,
Where silence hums and I have grown.

I woke up before the noise,
breathed with the trees,
walked with the sky.
The sun hadn't yawned yet,
but I had — twice.

Back home, I made coffee
strong enough to slap me awake.
I whispered to my cup,
"Let's be productive today."
It didn’t answer —
but I believed in us.

I sat down with math—
chapter four, page full of promises.
I underlined the heading,
adjusted my pen cap five times,
then sharpened a pencil
I didn’t even need.
Pro-level procrastination unlocked.

Midway through one sad-looking equation,
my phone lit up—
first a comment,
then a reel,
then a cat dancing to lo-fi beats.
Fifteen minutes later,
I knew three dessert recipes
and forgot the formula
I never really knew.

Suddenly, a line hit me—
not from the textbook,
but from somewhere softer.
A poem idea.
Just a line, I thought.
A quick jot.
A harmless verse.

But the line grew limbs,
called in stanzas,
and started demanding metaphors.
So I gave in.
I gave it my quiet,
my hours,
my last sip of cold coffee.

A crow watched me
from the window grill
like it knew
I was failing both maths and time.

And now—
the sun is long gone,
the sky has tucked itself in.
The poem is finished,
polished and breathing.
But that chapter?
Still untouched.
Still waiting.

We are human—
built on hope,
drawn to dreams
we may never reach.

Still, we want.
Still, we wait.

Love—
we crave it like breath,
though it breaks us,
burns us,
leaves us aching.

Yet we return,
bare and believing,
longing for arms
that won't let go.

Why?

Because we are human—
and love
is the wound
we keep calling home

Okay, so—
I didn’t just walk out.
I ran.
Not in a cool, slow-mo movie way.
More like tripping over a slipper
and accidentally knocking over my own confidence.

From what?
Everything.
The noise, the drama, the people who say
“Can I give you some feedback?”
(Please don’t. I’m fragile.)

I ran from my to-do list,
from “urgent” group calls,
and that one aunty who asks
if I’ve “lost weight or just look sick.”
Honestly, both.

I ran when I saw my old teacher at the grocery store.
I ran when someone asked,
“What’s your 5-year plan?”
I barely have a 5-minute one
and it mostly involves snacks.

Call it immature—
I call it survival.

I didn’t pack much.
Just chips, a charger,
and a carefully folded blanket of denial.

No regrets.
Now I’m somewhere quiet,
where no one talks about promotions,
weddings,
or “what I’ve accomplished lately.”

Just me, my hoodie,
and a growing list of things I pretend don’t exist

How much can I love the one I love?
Enough to choose her every single time.
To hold her in silence when no one else did.
To give her joy, even if the world call it selfish.

I love myself more than anything—
so much that I never wait for permission
to taste happiness in its wildest form—
whether it’s praised or judged.

If your presence brings me joy,
I’ll treasure you like sunlight on my skin.
But the moment you bring thunder,
I’ll walk away without a second glance.
Not out of hate—
but out of love
for the girl who never deserves storms.

My love isn’t Romeo-Juliet.
I won’t die for absence,
I won’t disappear for someone else’s story.
I am not half of a whole.
I am the whole.

To love me is to stand beside me.
To leave me is to lose me.
And that, too, is love—
the kind that never begs, never breaks,
only blooms.

So ask me again—
how much can I love the one I love?
Enough to become the reason she survives.
Enough to stay.
Enough to walk away.

Enough to live

Through Cracks, We Grow
A fault ran deep beneath our feet,
We felt it shift but stayed discreet.
No one dug down to see it through—
We turned away, as people do.

And so began the quiet slide,
As roots forgot how once they tied.

But storms don’t ask if we’re prepared—
They shake the truths we thought we shared.

One small hand reached, then two, then more,
New shoots broke through the cracked old floor.
And in that mess, still raw, still spun,
We saw a hint we’re not yet done.