He said it was your fault
the way you smiled too often at strangers,
the way your dress clung to your skin,
the way you spoke your mind
like it wasn’t meant to be silenced.


He said you were too much,
too loud, too free,
too wild to be loved by someone like him.
So he let his hands wander elsewhere
and called it your mistake.


He blamed you for the nights he disappeared,
for the silence he left in his wake,
for the guilt that crept into his voice
when you asked where he’d been.
He told you it was your laugh
too careless, too inviting,
like you wanted to be replaced.



But it wasn’t you
who forgot what love was made of.
It wasn’t you
who kissed someone else
and washed the taste down with excuses.



He blamed you because it was easier
than admitting he was small.
He blamed you because your strength
was the mirror to his weakness.



It wasn’t the dress,
it wasn’t the smile,
it wasn’t your beauty that broke him.
It was him
his hollow heart, his cowardice,
his inability to hold something real.


And you still sit in the ruins,
asking yourself what you could’ve done.
But the answer was never yours to give.
He was broken before he touched you,
and nothing you did could’ve changed that.


So let him carry the weight of his lies,
let him drown in the shame he tried to hand you.
You are not the cracks in his ******>ry.
You are the foundation he never deserved.

I had a white house,
perched near the coffee shop,
where the bees moved so gently
that even time forgot them.
I’d sit by the window,
counting the hours until my children’s laughter
spilled into the walls,
their footsteps filling the hollows of my day.
But then the alarm rings-5 a.m. sharp-
pulling me back to the hum of a life
I do not belong to.

The city rises around me,
a sea of faces I no longer recognize.
I search for eyes
that see beyond the shape of me,
past the weight I carry in silence.

I come home to this house,
perfect in the way magazines promise life should be,
the kind people long for,
and yet it feels foreign,
like I am trespassing in my own dream.

Why is it that I still search for home
in the breath of someone who doesn’t exist

Forgive yourself
like the ocean forgives itself
for the wreckage it leaves
after a storm.

It crashes, it swallows,
it pulls away
and then it rests,
silent and still.

The tornado does not regret
its violence against the birds,
it only moves
until the wind calms.

Sometimes we destroy what we love,
tear apart the world
with words and silence
but we also heal with the same hands.

You are the storm
and you are the calm
you are the force
that pulls and the one that lets go.

Forgive yourself
for the hurt you’ve caused
and for the parts of you
that have been broken.

I bled while you stood by my side,
ready to spill every drop until I faded away.
You walked away as my blood turned to gray,
and I stitched myself with fragile threads.
I crave the pain of bleeding with you here,
not held back by this delicate fabric.
These threads may keep me from falling apart,
but they trap me in a never-ending cycle
I just want to unravel it all
I want to bleed

15 seconds of reels,
A huge burst of dopamine,
Chasing the same fleeting high,
Riding the endless wave of ups and downs.

2:00 a.m. at the bar,
Shouting into the night,
Lost in conversations with strangers,
While feeling disconnected from those close to us.

We drift through shadowed rooms,
Resting in separate corners,
Searching for a place that feels like home,
Wandering from one room to the next,
Where's home?

Home is monotonous,
We don't chase the comfort of home,
We linger, waiting for something more.

We fill our days with distractions,
Filling voids with temporary thrills,
In a constant quest for meaning.

As the night stretches on,
We wonder if the chase is worth the cost,
Screaming for genuine connection,
Beyond the transient highs and lows.

In the end, we seek a home not just in walls,
But in the quiet understanding,
The kind of peace that isn't found in the buzz.

Home is boring
We don't chase home
We stay there

I know you think you’re only beautiful in the dark,
like the moon, meant to be adored from afar, in shadows.
And maybe the stars whisper this to you,
but stars are only brave when no one’s watching
they fade as soon as the world fills with light.
Why take advice from something that hides with the dawn?

Your light comes from the sun, not from borrowed reflections.
You’re meant to stand in full view, to claim your space in the day.
Only the sun is your equal.
So why listen to stars that doubt their own strength?
Why let them convince you
that your worth is only real in the quiet of night

In the compile of words
We have lost our favourite poems
It's hard to remember
Probably we have forgotten
You might find the same poem
After a decade
In the dust of old papers
I know you'll remove all the dust
To read your favourite poem one more time
If you read it carefully you haven't forgotten your poem
It got lost in the compile of new pages.
What if we get the chance to read again