With the wrong person,
the morning sun seems dull,
flowers droop their heads,
and even the laughter of the wind
feels hollow.

The streets look narrower,
the skies lower,
and every color
loses its warmth.

But with the right person,
even cracked walls shimmer,
the grayest rain glistens like diamonds,
and shadows dance with light.

The world softens,
the ordinary becomes extraordinary,
and what once was ugly
turns into beauty,
simply because of who walks beside you.

I rose from ashes
again
only to turn in dust
once again

Fighting the flesh is one thing
you see the blow,
you feel the bruise,
you know where to strike back.

But fighting what’s unseen…
that is war without a face.
A silence that claws at you,
a shadow that never tires.

How do you punch
a thought that whispers?
How do you bind
a memory that bleeds in the dark?

No sword,
no shield,
just you
and the weight of what no one else can see.

And still,
you battle.
Every breath,
every step,
a victory invisible,
but no less real.

Running never helps
your feet can only carry you
as far as your shadows allow.
They cling,
longer than the road,
darker than the night.

Facing does.
But to turn toward your demons
is to stare into eyes
that mirror your own fears.
They whisper with the voice of doubt,
they breathe the smoke of regrets past.

You step closer,
and your chest tightens,
your knees weaken.
The weight of all you buried
presses heavy,
and you collapse
faint, fragile,
a body too tired to fight.

Yet, even in that silence,
something stirs.
A flicker.
A pulse that will not surrender.

And when you wake,
you rise
not the same,
but sharper,
your scars glowing like constellations.

Once again,
you breathe,
brighter than before,
as if the darkness itself
had polished your light.

Running never helps,
facing does.

To face your demons
is to stumble,
to faint beneath their weight.

But when you wake,
you will rise
once again,
brighter than before,
a fire reborn from ash.

The past does not vanish,
it lingers like smoke in the lungs,
like scars beneath healed skin.

You say, forget,
but memories are stubborn
they carve names into your bones,
etch shadows into your laughter.

Every step forward
drags echoes behind it,
chains disguised as silence.

The present trembles,
the future bends,
all colored by yesterday’s hand.

You live, yes,
but not untouched.
Circumstances brand you,
not with fire,
but with the quiet ruin
of what could have been.

And still,
you breathe through the ash,
carrying both the wound
and the will to rise.

If things were to go wrong,
you believe they would still stay right.

If he were to leave,
you believe he would stay.

If you were to be with someone else,
you believe you would still stay with him.

If God planned something better,
would you wish to choose the worse?

So, my dear, do not mourn—
though the pain may sit beside you.
Live with faith and love,
let them hold the edges of your ache.

So, my dear, devour life,
every jiffy, whether void or full,
whether it burns or soothes.