There are stories in my chest
no one has read—
pages inked with tears,
and words pressed down so hard
the paper almost tore.
I’ve smiled in rooms
where my soul was breaking,
nodded to questions
while my heart screamed answers
no one would understand.
Yet here I am—
not because the road was kind,
but because I kept walking
even when my steps
felt heavier than the sky.

Some days,
my strength is just breathing.
Other days,
it’s daring to dream again.

And through it all,
my heart still beats—
a quiet rebellion
against everything
that tried to silence it. 🫀

Some victories are so quiet,
the world never hears them—
yet they echo forever in the soul.

No one saw
the nights you whispered,
“Just one more day.”
No one felt
how your chest ached
from holding in storms,
or how your hands trembled
as you tried to stitch
your own broken edges.
Yet you kept walking—
through the ache,
through the silence,
through days that felt
they would never end.
And maybe no one will ever know
the wars you fought alone,
but here’s the truth:
You survived them.
And survival—
is everything.

I want to be the kind of love
that doesn't knock—
but walks in when life falls apart.
The kind that doesn’t flinch
at your mess—
but pulls up a chair
and says,
“Tell me where it hurts.”
Not the firework kind—
quick and loud.
But the candle kind—
quiet,
steady,
still burning
after the room is dark.
The kind that remembers
your favorite song
even when the world forgets your name.
That holds your hand
even when you’re hard to hold.
If no one’s ever loved you like that—
then let this poem
be the first time
you feel it.

There will be days when strength feels out of reach—
but remember, you’ve made it through everything so far.
You were built to rise,
even when life tries to hold you down.
Growth isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s just showing up.
One breath, one choice, one step at a time.
You’ve got this.
The fight in you is real

They didn’t see the nights
I held my breath through the silence—
when the world slept,
but my fears didn’t.
They didn’t feel
the weight I carried
just to smile in the morning,
or the wars I fought inside
just to show up.
But I’m still here.
And that means something.
Not because I had it easy—
but because I chose to rise
when falling felt familiar.
Because I kept loving,
kept hoping,
kept burning
when I had every excuse to go cold.
This strength isn’t loud.
It’s quiet,
earned,
and scarred.
I am my own reason to believe.
And even if no one claps,
I’ll still climb.
Because this fire in me
was never meant to die.

Joy isn’t loud.
It doesn’t crash in like thunder.
It hums—
beneath the clatter of chores,
in the curl of morning bread,
in the wink of a child’s crooked tooth.
It’s the joke you tell yourself
when no one’s looking.
The dance your shadow does
when music forgets to play.

Joy isn’t planned.
It spills.
It grows through concrete.
It’s a rebellion in softness—
a riot of warmth
in a world too cold.
You don’t need to earn it.
You just need to notice—
Joy has no edges.
So let it reach you.

A road paved with memories of pain,
Thoughts that won’t let go,
Trapped in the vault of my mind.
I search for what's wrong—
But pain speaks in silence.

It either builds or breaks.
It becomes a weapon,
Where emotions stay locked.
I try to return
To a path long forgotten.
They say there’s light
At the tunnel’s end...
But what if there isn’t?

So I searched within—
To carve hope
From my own emptiness.
The pain was real,
But the scars were illusions
Time refused to heal.

When I almost gave up,
A voice found me.
A whisper turned into light—
A flicker I never saw before.

My illusions faded.
Strength rose.
Not because I was healed—
But because I chose to rise.

The tunnel wasn’t endless.
Just darker
Than I was ready for.