To all the daughters with a father —
How does it feel to live my dream?
To wake up with both parents under one roof,
To know what it means to feel protected?

Happy Father’s Day to all the fathers —
And Happy Father’s Day to the mothers, too.
The ones who had to step up in a father’s place,
Who fought silent battles,
And carried the weight of both roles.

To those mothers —
Don’t forget: it’s not your fault.
It’s their loss, not yours.
Thank you —
For taking the place they abandoned,
For giving your all while grieving your own loss,
For standing tall when you weren’t sure you could.

Warm, but it flickers—candlelight gold.
You live in fight or flight, I see,
Always hoping to break free.

You pour out loving words, no doubt,
Yet stab me softly as they spill out.
I know you don’t mean to—I promise.
But how much longer till you promise?

I’ll hold the pain, I swear—be honest.
I’ll write it down, try to keep quiet,
Tuck it away, keep it all private,
While my heart sparks a silent riot.

Hiding the bold lines that bleed in ink and not my skin,
Questioning and asking when
And if I will I give in,
And let it bleed from my skin.

Still, even pain can bloom, if sown.  
Loving you might be hard now—  
But I won't let you go.  
I still want our love to grow.

She's a loving girl in the day.
Her words might be sharp, but they dont cut too deep
Not because she Pities you,
But because only she
Knows the real her after lights out.

Strong, confident, and quiet
Thats how they describe her.
But at night,
Only when she's the only on listening,
She lets everything out.

Tears come out like rivers,
Silently, she cries
Not because she is too sensitive,
But dreading the tick of the clock
Each second that passes
She'll find a new piece of you to miss,

This is the art:
Of loving too much
While speaking too little
Drowning in her own worries,

She is me,
waiting for the lights to go out.

I once imagined your voice—
deep, steady,
full of the words I needed to hear:
"I love you."
"I'm proud of you."
"I'm sorry."

But those words never came.

You were supposed to be my protector,
my shelter.
Instead, you became a shadow.

I searched for you
in every stranger's kindness,
hoping to find
what I wished
could have been you.

They told me,
"It'll take time."
But how much time
Until the pain lets go?
It fades, yes—
But it lingers,
Like a new wound
Reopened by memory.

I don’t miss you.
I miss
Who I imagined you to be

Holding the smile on my face feels fake,
Talking about it only brings more hate,
I fear it might already be too late,
Outrunning time and tempting my fate.

They stand around me laughing at my mistake,
Not knowing what I'd do to just not be awake,
To not feeling as pointless as the poems I make.

Watching as it gets harder,
Drowning in the running water,
Hoping they turn the tap off at my offer,
But it brings them pleasure—to watch me suffer.

Laughing while i slip away,
Taking drugs to help the ache,
Taking pills like candy—with a smile on my face.

I fade away to only a whisper,
Watching life flicker.

The tap water is turning into a lake,
Slowly pulling me below the surface,
And all I do is hope to break.

But even drowning I still breathe,
Clinging to truths I half believe.

The mirrors cracked, but it doesn't lie,
It just tells half the truth, yet
There's still a fire beyond this cry.

The current pulls, but I don't cave,
Scars may flood, but I won’t drown—
This time, I swim in the lake. Barely not going down.

I question why a beautiful boy like you would draw too,
Bold, thin red lines telling a story
Deep and ugly,
Full of hatred and guilt,
Seeping through your sleeves.
Did no one teach you
That pain, when silenced,
Finds its own voice?
That even roses bleed
When held too tightly?

I watch from close but feel so far,
Feeling guilty and lost,
Wondering what makes you draw too,
Hoping you find the end of the tunnel
Before it closes on you.

I would let you see yourself through my eyes—
That what lies beneath the scars
Are stories to come and beauty to be shown.

Let me remind you:
Your wound is not your worth.
You'll learn you don't have to bleed to be heard—
I hear you, and I’m listening.

So, with all that said,
I'll teach you my ways:
That you're not your scars,
Nor the ache that shaped them,
But a survivor of the pain
Laid out in lines,
Some short, some tall—but all the same.

So let the past bleed out in ink, not skin.
Let tomorrow find you softer, still whole.
You are not alone.
You have me.