Would it be okay?
To let it all go,
fade to black
like at the end of a movie?

To let the world go bright,
a brilliant white,
created by the light
of thousands of stars.

There is not enough quiet,
in this world so loud,
a screaming symphony
of notifications and needs.

A hum,
a thrum,
a constant, gnawing crowd
pressing in, planting anxious little seeds.

Where everything is a race,
where you run till you drown,
chasing shadows,
fleeting glimpses of "enough."

Lost in the echo chamber
of this bustling town,
yearning for stillness,
a touch, gentle and rough.

Like the wind
whispering secrets through tall grass,
or the soft fall of snow
on a winter's night.

A space to breathe,
a moment that will last,
beyond the blinding glare
of artificial light.

A quiet heart,
a quiet mind,
a quiet soul,
lost in the static, searching for control.

She smiles,
just a little,
and the tension in my shoulders
melts,
like snow on warm skin.

Her voice,
a low, steady current,
is like coming home.
This girl,
with her soft eyes,
and gentle words,
is…

the harbor in my storm,
the fire in my winter,
the reason I remember
how to breathe again.

She is the quiet promise
whispered in the wind,
that peace, at last,
might finally be granted.

She is the reason
my heart knows how to beat,
a melody both ancient
and eternally new.
She is sanctuary,
in its purest form,
a haven built of kindness,
and offered just to me.

You say its your fault,
but I disagree.
You are who you choose,
not what they want you to be.

It's over,
never letting go,
holding onto a frail hope.
Gone now.

Shards of glass
crash to the floor
tiny ruby droplets
dust their surface.

Words like knives
cutting,
killing,
blame the victim.

Wrong place wrong time
not true
it cannot be true
there is only one at fault.

Look up at the sky
dusting of stars
go to the place
where all the dreamers are.

The eyes in the mirror,
do not look like mine.
They are tired,
and without life.
Perhaps this is who I am now,
just a tired, hurting soul,
who is just a shadow,
drifting through life,
toward the end.

Mirror, mirror,
on the wall,
reflecting back a stranger.
They say I'm supposed to be… this,
what they told me I am.
Boxed up,
labeled,
filed away neatly.

But the edges fray.
The corners don't quite fit.
Like wearing someone else's
hand-me-downs,
scratchy and wrong,
against my skin.

I try on different clothes,
different personalities,
trying to find
the one that feels real.
The one that doesn't whisper,
"You're faking it."

Everything feels like a costume,
for a play I never rehearsed for.
Who wrote this script?
And can I please get a rewrite?
Because this version of me?
It just doesn't feel right.

A stream made of roses,
a house made of thorns,
a forest made of stardust,
and a girl who feels like home.

life is like the tide,
lapping softly on the shore.
it pulls and pushes,
dances and dips,
tugs and turns.
it is beautiful like the tide,
soft and gentle
foaming crescents,
letting the heart play.
it is also dangerous like the tide,
dark and frothing,
sharp and yanking,
pulling you under,
to a place you might never break free of.
but that is just it,
life plays like a child,
but screams like demon,
it is light and dark,
sun and moon,
but like the tide,
it will change.
challenges will come and go,
struggle will arrive and leave,
joy will vanish only to come back on the other side.
for life is like the tide,
free, unexpected, and glorious.