We are soft things
on a spinning rock,
with hearts too big
for the skin that holds them.

We cry over songs
and laugh in places
we were once broken.
We hold each other like lifelines.
because sometimes,
we are.

Strangers become soulmates
in coffee shop lines,
on sidewalks,
in passing glances that feel like déjà vu.
A shared joke.
A favorite movie.
A song we both scream in the car
with the windows down.
Somehow,
we just get each other.

We create art
from the ache.
Paint galaxies
on bedroom ceilings.
Turn “I miss you”
into music,
and pain
into poetry.

We find beauty
in the ordinary:
sunlight through curtains,
the way someone says our name
softly,
like they mean it.

Yes. there is war.
There is grief.
There is so much we don’t understand.
But there’s also
birthday candles,
random hugs,
midnight walks with friends
who make the silence feel full.

We love so hard
even when we’re scared.
We show up,
even when it hurts.
And when the sky falls,
we rebuild,
together.

So if you ever wonder
what’s still good in this world,
look around:

We’re still laughing.
Still reaching.
Still dancing
in the ruins.
Still human.

And somehow,
that’s enough
to believe in.

Is this real?
Or am I just a puppet,
strings pulled tight by hands I can’t see,
dancing in a play I didn’t write,
where the applause is silence,
and the curtain never falls.

I feel my skin—raw and soft—
but it might as well be paper.
Thin. Fragile.
I could tear myself open
and still not find what’s real inside.

The world moves in slow motion,
a ghost-town carnival spinning
rusted rides and faded lights.
I see faces, but they blur,
like smudged charcoal,
like something smeared
before the artist gave up.

I hear laughter.
It cuts, jagged and wrong,
like knives scraping bone,
like a sound that forgot
what it was supposed to mean.

This can’t be real.
How could it be,
when my feet feel heavy,
like I’m sinking through the ground?
When my breath turns to smoke,
when my shadow whispers secrets
I’m too afraid to hear?

Sometimes, I swear the walls are watching.
Sometimes, I think they’re laughing.
Sometimes, I hope they’ll swallow me whole,
because at least then,
I wouldn’t have to ask—
what’s real?

Tell me,
if I rip this world apart,
will it bleed?
If I claw at the seams,
will I find the truth,
or just another lie sewn tight?

I’m tired.
So tired of this half-life,
of waking up in a dream
that feels more like a nightmare.
If this is reality,
it’s a cruel one.
If it’s not—
don’t wake me.

Let me drift into the dark,
because maybe the nothing
is more honest
than this.
s.t.

As I sit here
Staring at the submit button
I think of the times that I couldn't even
Start
A wave of emotion overcomes me
As I remember where
I once
Started
The clock ticks midnight
The link
Closes
And I am left
In a confused state
Of nostalgia for what once
Was

I may teach, but you must learn.
I learn, but not because I am
The Teacher.
Rather, because I am always willing to
Be a student.