Well, the night is long,  
and the silence stings,  
messages like whispers,  
caught on invisible strings.  
How will you know what to do,  
when the truth feels like a game,  
and the words that fall from your lips,  
are just echoes of shame?  

In this world of quick decisions,  
where every glance can deceive,  
the heart wears a mask,  
and the soul learns to grieve.  
A liar’s tongue can spin a tale,  
but the heart knows the score,  
underestimate the shadows,  
and you’ll find you’re wanting more.  

Oh, we’re different features  
of the same old face,  
chasing memories like ghosts,  
in this empty, crowded space.  
Time’s a thief in the night,  
it moves like a restless tide,  
risking everything for a moment,  
when the truth can’t be denied.  

So we reach across the darkness,  
with hands that tremble and shake,  
searching for that flicker,  
in a world that feels so fake.  
And when the morning breaks,  
with the dawn’s gentle light,  
we’ll find the strength to rise,  
and make our shadows bright.

The ferry rocked,
an old whisper on restless tides,
each creak a memory, a sigh from the depths.
Sunlight sliced through the salt-laden air,
too bright, too bold,
etching shadows into my restless skin.

Smoke spilled from my lips,
a dance of ghosts—
yesterday's sorrows drifting,
too light to stain the sky.
Your hand found mine, rough and worn,
a map of uncharted dreams.

The ink on your chest breathed stories,
mysteries woven in flesh,
a melody I longed to sing.
Time fractured,
the world faded—
gulls cried out at the edge of forever.

“Let’s go home,” you murmured,
your voice soft,
fragile as a thread untangling.
But home wasn’t a place;
it was the weight of your touch,
the sun’s embrace,
the engine’s roar,
and the ache of everything unspoken.

I didn’t reply—
I let the silence cradle us,
because home was this moment,
and this moment was enough.

The orchid leans on the windowsill,
its bruised petals curling inward,
a lover retreating from touch.
I press my fingers to the ache behind my eyes,
tears hovering like syrup, slow and amber,
binding the moment to the marrow of memory.
Time drips thick,
a sweetness heavy with regret,
its weight both burden and balm.

You spoke love as if it were a fragile thing,
delicate as twilight slipping between hands.
Your voice held the softness of midwife palms,
unafraid to cradle what could not yet breathe.
I clung to those words,
their sweetness lingering like salt on my tongue,
until they dissolved into silence,
the aftertaste of everything unspoken.

The sea rises in my dreams,
its waves stinging, cleansing,
dragging away the grains of unsaid good-byes.
The horizon remains distant, unreachable,
but I think of syrup’s deliberate fall,
how even the slowest drop reaches its end.
I carry the ache of transformation,
a tender weight,
and let the salt beneath my skin
become the shape of healing.

When the blue silence presses,
and absence carves its hollow,
I search for a rare diamond,
a glint of you,
of us,
among the drifting days.

You, all edges and precision,
the logic mind.
I, the artist,
unruly and alive,
painting between your lines.
Together, we unmade the fractures
and called it a whole.

A dragonfly hovered—
fragile, fleeting—
a reminder of your soul
and the weight of what you left.
The brittle smile you wore,
I held it once,
felt the shatter in my hands.

Now, I sketch the absence,
and you map its edges.
Between us,
a quiet collaboration.
No need to name the loss,
no need to claim the light—
we move as one,
carving truth from shadow.

A laugh, a tear—  
what do we do with this cold world?  
She asks for so little,  
yet the air thickens with unspoken anger,  
a toll from a long week,  
severe and heavy,  
as if life itself demands a final request.  

Promises of sweet slumber,  
the kind that cradles the soul,  
shattered by lingering conversations,  
each word a delicate thread,  
pulled taut by a plea that feels whimsical.  
Fear, that insidious creature,  
wraps its tendrils around her heart,  
craving comfort,  
a whisper of security amid chaos.  

Why weave such doubts into the fabric of love?  
Why not simply exist,  
free from the weight of dominance?  
Old-fashioned beliefs linger like ghosts,  
it was merely a treat,  
a gesture of affection—  
can't you see?  

Letting go feels like breathing underwater,  
the pressure rising,  
and still, I reach out,  
a decorated veteran of this emotional war.  
A gift, tenderly offered,  
but you chose to turn away,  
clouding the tender moments  
that could burst forth with joy.  

I’m sorry for this weight,  
for the burden you perceive,  
but all I seek is connection,  
even as the world spins cold  
without you beside me.

In the cramped silence of the toilet,  
echoes of fractured thoughts spiral,  
the walls constrict, a breath held in,  
where shadows twist like fingers,  
clenching the air, a tightrope of despair,  
normalcy dissolves like sugar in bitter tea,  
my pulse stutters, a metronome lost,  
Hitchcockian dread unfurls its dark wings,  
memories bleed crimson, pooling beneath the sink.

I cannot endure this solitude,  
where are you, phantom of my heart?  
Your golden essence, a cruel sun—  
breaking me open, revealing raw flickers,  
sacrifices made to coax a smile  
from the depths of my ashen soul.  
Hush, now—the tears tumble,  
each drop a stone, sinking,  
a release from this coiled torment,  
trapped in a moment where time slips.

Tired of running, running forever,  
this pretty broken girl, genuinely wronged,  
the world outside a distant murmur,  
yet hope flickers, fragile as a candle’s flame,  
a soft beacon in the cavernous dark,  
reminding me that even in despair,  
life whispers its stubborn promise,  
that one day, I may find my way home.

In the stillness, she danced,  
water swirling like secrets,  
time a mere whisper,  
eyes closed to the chill,  
skin alive with the pulse of the depths.  

A fleeting liberation,  
where moments collide and shatter,  
thoughts unfurling like wings,  
forgiveness a fragile thread,  
I am the universe,  
emotions spreading like wildfire,  
sleep draped in silken shadows,  
light filtering through the cracks,  
nakedness swathed in raw truth.  

Tomorrow hovers, a shadow,  
a bruise in hues of dusk—  
she stands fierce, a believer,  
an idol crumbling softly,  
wonder scattered like autumn leaves,  
complex,  
a hundred regrets unraveled  
by the tenderness of touch,  
the clash of hearts.  

Forgotten streets murmur,  
eyes gazing through fractured glass,  
twisted futures loom,  
the shell of dreams yet unformed,  
caught in the symphony of now,  
overlooking the madness,  
the deceptions,  
the lovers broken like fragile glass.  

The scratch of pen on paper,  
the rhythm of a heartbeat,  
inked memories blur,  
sweet sorrow cascading—  
not unlike revelations,  
a bitter pill to swallow,  
the absurd,  
the shifting of my visage,  
the lens refocused,  
the key turned in the labyrinth of thought.  

Chains echo in the quiet,  
the poppies dance like sisters,  
bound by a thread of crimson,  
tears cascading,  
sinking in solitude,  
loving through the ache,  
death approaching,  
a tender, inevitable embrace.

She said he hurt her,  
a wound wrapped in soft lullabies,  
his voice a serpent  
coiling 'round her dreams,  
where the green fern forest  
breathed secrets into the night,  
and moss shrouded the bones  
of forgotten civilizations.

In the day,  
she fashioned dreams  
like delicate glass,  
eyes half-closed,  
floating through the crowd,  
a specter among the living,  
while shadows,  
like whispered promises,  
clung to her skin.

At night,  
the seconds drip drop,  
heavy as rain on a tin roof,  
each tick a heartbeat,  
each pause a gasp,  
he follows her  
as a prayer follows its own  
search for grace,  
the memory of a violence  
that needed no voice,  
only the cold embrace  
of silence wrapped around her.

In the twilight,  
she gathers the frayed edges of her soul,  
sifting through the dark  
for remnants of light,  
for the lullabies  
that cradle her in the depths,  
reminding her that even in shadows,  
the heart learns to beat again,  
even in the echo of pain,  
there is a flicker,  
a stubborn flame.

She breathes in a room humming with life,
a fragile song, not loud but steady,
a bridge between two worlds I can’t yet cross.
The air smells like morning,
crisp, new,
the kind of scent that cradles hope in its arms.

I drive to the beach,
rain dancing on the windshield,
weaving patterns that feel like promises.
The sand is cool beneath my feet,
the kind of cool that wakes you up
and whispers, you’re alive.

I pick up a stone—
smooth, enduring, timeless—
and toss it into the ocean.
The splash feels like a spark,
a seed of something unseen
but waiting to bloom.

Back home, her letters spill across the table,
ink alive on paper,
strokes of dreams I hadn’t known.
Friends I wish I’d met,
questions that feel less like fear now
and more like paths still open.

It feels like lighting a candle,
not the flame,
but the glow that follows,
where everything softens,
and even shadows turn kind.

In her story, there is a kiss,
but it’s not a prince—it’s the sky,
a quiet reunion between breath and stars,
a tide that always finds its shore.
The wind carries her voice,
not lost, but endless,
folding into the waves’ rhythm.

I sit in the car,
watching raindrops glide like silver threads.
Each one falls,
joins,
becomes part of something greater.
And I know I’ll keep walking with her,
not waiting,
but living—
in this space between waves.

Divers plunge into the ocean of my soul,
sifting through fragments of joy,
shards of laughter,
a mosaic of moments bathed in light.

Love, a blinding star,
grief, its shadow trailing behind,
the death of time unfolds silently,
second after second slipping into the abyss.

Tears carve rivers on my cheeks,
their currents whisper truths
I cannot name but feel—
bittersweet, an ache that sings.

I hold this hurt tenderly,
a fragile treasure,
and wouldn’t trade it for emptiness.

Still, I stretch toward the light,
my fingers brushing
the edges of something infinite,
a hope shimmering beyond the waves.

My words black and blue,
fractured echoes of a silence that roars.
I’ve finally lost you,
or perhaps just buried you deeper,
beneath the weight of unspoken truths.

Abuse doesn’t hide far;
it lingers in the marrow,
seeping into glances,
the falter of a smile
that struggles to reach the eyes.

I remain small,
and cracked till now,
a vessel that holds fragments
but leaks with every breath.

To share is to shatter,
to place the jagged edges of myself
into the trembling hands of another.
But I’ve learned—
not all hands are steady.

Secrets live best in shadows,
nestled beside shame,
wrapped in vines of memories
too sharp to untangle.

The key rests in the jungle of my soul,
forgotten,
or perhaps,
guarded.

Tears carve faint rivers on my face,
a map without direction.
Her hands—untouched whispers.
Her voice—swallowed silence.
I wander the plains
she once passed,
leaving only air where footprints should be.

Where was the harbor of her arms?
The rise and fall of her breath,
a tide I’ve never known?
I sift the sands of memory,
but they crumble,
grains slipping through
the hollows of a name
that feels like someone else’s.

Questions scatter like leaves—
fragile, unanswered—
skimming the surface before they sink.
Did she watch my first light bloom?
Did her shadow lean over me,
or was I always a ghost
in her unseeing gaze?

The silence—
heavy as the weight of earth—
presses into my chest.
I bear it still,
a shadowed grief,
a mother’s shape
etched in absence.

Fragments of a dying light,
His words of sorrow crumble in my mouth,
Splinters of a shattered mirror—
Light refracting,
The iron taste lingers, bitter and raw.

The hoary silhouette of bare branches looms,
Their grip frozen, unmoving, still—
A vast, naked nothingness
Dwells within me,
Hollow, cold, and bare.

Identities unknown, faces erased,
Responsibility slips into the void.
Confusion swells, a tide of paranoia,
Scattered dreams of strangers,
Shoals glimmering in ceaseless dance.

Rapid-fire bullets of offence,
A necklace of sins,
Heavy, choking,
My drowning heart clenched tight,
Twenty years of youth bled dry.

Once, I felt brave—
A warrior in the haze,
A needle my sword, ****** my shield.
Layer by layer, I sought salvation,
Grasping, frantic, at false light.

I needed his pity,
His shame,
His love to save me from myself.
But betrayal stained the air—
A wound too deep to heal.

Fishhooks pierce and pull,
Entrapment tears my flesh apart.
Love dies slow,
Its remnants shatter,
Leaving only the wreckage of me.

She sketched the quiet,
with charcoal shadows and haunting trees,
bending to winds that whispered lies,
calling, but never her name.

Wildflowers leaned in defiance,
toward a light she could not feel,
children’s laughter, untamed rivers,
while hers unraveled into dust.

An old soul, they said,
drifting through doors left ajar,
a wanderer in borrowed lives,
but always a stranger,
always a ghost.

She craved the world,
its wild crescendos, its burning skies,
but the edges cut too deep.
Her hands, blistered from endless reaching,
held truths too sharp to release.
The rain came and kissed the earth,
but her skin held the stains,
red as warnings,
swollen like secrets buried alive.

The bruises healed but lingered,
etched on the walls of her mind,
like shadows curling tight
around a room with no escape.

She tasted love once,
a fleeting hymn in a cathedral of storms,
a breath of warmth on frostbitten lips.
He devoured the letters she wrote,
exhaling truths that burned through her chest.

No one knew the weight she bore,
the silence stitched across her ribs,
like velvet sewn with broken glass.
She wrote, she spun fragile threads of light,
a tapestry too beautiful to wear,
her soul adrift in a realm
untouched by what she could not name.

In the end, she lived
in the spaces between,
between the screams,
between the quiet,
between the words
she dared not sing.

I am the dandelion stripped bare,
a clock undone by the unkind wind.
The mirrors show only fractures—
golden veins soldered by despair,
a mosaic of bruises in pale flesh.

He smells of bonfires and damp earth,
his words the gravel I swallow nightly.
They lodge in my throat,
sharp, unyielding,
a wound that never softens.

Children scribble lives onto the walls,
their chalk-stained hands clean of memory.
But I, I cradle dust,
collect it in jars like dead stars,
its weight heavy as unspoken apologies.

Autumn’s throat opens,
spilling leaves like confessions
nobody wanted to hear.
The trees, skeletons now,
stand naked in their quiet accusations.

He pushed me into the bloom of violence,
a ****** rose garden beneath my tongue.
I tasted the metal of his hate
and whispered back my surrender,
weak as the wind that kissed my wrists.

Was I ever more than ash,
a ghost of flesh, a runaway child
chased by the shadows of promises
never meant to hold?
The doorway in my eyes collapses inward—
a city burned down before it was built.

The branches bend, the whispers scream,
Pop the bubble, shatter the dream.
Strawberry lips, sweet with rot,
“Can you keep a secret?” She forgot.

Violence bleeds, running cold,
Winter veins, no heart to hold.
Stone beats hollow, fire burns red,
She’s alive, but inside she’s dead.

Momma said, “Pick one or two,”
She picked him, she never picked you.
Cries fell flat, the echoes lied,
Left her kid to fight or die.

Throw a punch, break the skin,
Storm rolls in, let the dark begin.
Kick in teeth, spit out hate,
She’s the girl you’ll never save.

No sweet songs, no bedtime grace,
Just screams carved deep into her face.
“Strawberry,” she hums, sharp and neat,
“Can you keep a secret?” Her rage complete.

Spindly needles of frost cling to weathered gold,
the leaf bends beneath their weight.
Fog rises, thick and silent,
branches sharpen into knives,
cutting through the pale dawn.

The old man carves his talent into time,
death murmurs near, soft as breath.
A girl with fair hair spins barefoot
through empty streets,
fires burn behind her,
crosses inked on skin,
tears etched in permanence.

Lovers, unashamed, kiss carelessly.
His blackened hands bruise her pale body,
purple blossoms bloom
as their hunger devours the moment.
Eyes like lakes, the old man watches,
proud, detached, remembering.

The memory thrashes—a storm of fists,
blood on teeth, skies collapsing.
Howls shatter the silence,
the price of another hit.
Alone, crumbling, he danced once too,
selling pieces of himself
to keep the night at bay.

Now it is all a dance,
the endless illusion of nothingness.
Pain and relief close their eyes together,
fingers frozen,
pressing against the glass
of a universe crumbling to frost.

The tide turned, soft as a breath,
pulling your words back into the sea.
I stood on the edge of your silence,
watching the waves erase you,
each moment vanishing before it could settle.

This sorrow crept in like f o g,
quiet, unnoticed, until it was everything.
Once, we were sunlight through half-open blinds,
simple, warm, unspoken.
Now, only the shadows remain,
stretching farther than I can reach.

The tide receded, carrying pieces of us—
the way your voice filled a room,
the weight of your name in my thoughts.
I turned away, not toward hope,
but away from the emptiness.
And behind me, the sea whispered,
This is where we begin again.

The hands of mercy, shattered by the weight of an invisible storm, secrete despair into the cracks of existence.

Petals torn from the soul's desert rose, scattered into the infinite wind, bearing the scent of destruction.

Words unravel, trembling, like wounded birds on a forgotten page, as if being watched by unseen eyes.

Her womb, a dark garden, blooms secrets steeped in shadow and fire, infidelity the key to its forbidden growth.

The drug, a serpent of cold synthesis, coils through trembling veins, pushing the mind above and beyond the limits of sanity.

An apology exhales, faint and futile, dissolving like potassium permanganate crystals in water, purple haze trailing into nothingness.

Above, fireworks fall, burning the sky with the grief of silent stars, destruction written in their fiery descent.

He called her a ****-tease.
The word fell heavy, sharp as stones
breaking a bird’s flight mid-air.
She stood still. Her spirit fled—
to the quiet fields of her elders,
where flowers opened their mouths
only to name themselves.

The dress,
its soft rebellion,
became his battlefield.
"*****," he spat, each letter
a cracked drumbeat
splintering the silence between them.
Outside, dusk folded its hands,
a god turning away
from the sound of a woman
breaking.

When his palm
found her cheek,
the stars held their breath.
The earth bent at the waist.
His hands—desperate shadows
on her throat—learned quickly
what could not be held.

She walked barefoot
into the ancestral fields,
where the soil hummed
with the weight of her leaving.
Women waited there,
their grief braided with light.
They opened their mouths
and her name rose,
whole as a hymn.

I did not come to this earth
to die for the shadow of a dream,
to impale my heart on the sharp thorns
of ambition’s endless rose.
No, I came to live inside the quiet rivers,
to carry the soft weight of the morning’s light
in my hands,
to bury my face in the soil of ordinary days
and rise, fragrant with their whispers.

I did not seek perfection;
perfection is a cruel wind
that bends no branch,
allows no blossom to fall.
Instead, I search for the cracks—
those holy fractures
where the light sings its way in,
where life spills like wine
across the trembling lips of the world.

We are fluent in pain,
each of us holding the dialect of loss
in our bones.
I have read the script of your tears,
seen my own reflection
in the glass of your breaking.
Your heart is a book I know by touch,
each page etched with sorrow
and the tender thumbprints of hope.

I do not long for glory—
glory is a fleeting bird
with a broken wing.
I long for the quiet threads
that sew the sacred to the common:
the bread shared at a wooden table,
the warmth of a hand that holds without asking,
the beauty of a scar kissed by time.

There is a beauty in suffering,
a beauty that does not demand mending.
It stands like a mountain at dusk,
silent and untouchable.
It does not cry for transcendence,
but for the gaze of another,
for the voice that says,
“I am here.
I will not turn away.”

Let us walk,
not as conquerors,
but as pilgrims,
our feet stained by the dust of this earth.
Let us stumble,
our burdens carried not in shame
but as offerings,
as gifts to one another.
We will not flee the ache of life—
no, we will drink it,
pour it into the chalice of the stars,
and watch it glow softly,
a lantern that whispers,
“We are here.
We are enough.”

The night splits open like an old wound,
your hands press against the ache,
unweaving the heaviness that clings to me.

Beneath your skin, a constellation whispers—
rebellion wrapped in light,
I surrender to its pull.

Your eyes, sharp as memory,
hold truths I cannot name.

They sing of battles and soft winds,
of hunger that does not apologize.

Each layer you shed is a testimony,
your touch, a reckoning—
both fire and balm.

I follow the shadowed path you carve,
your voice like a spell
that gathers all my scattered pieces.

Your fingertips rewrite my grief,
turning my silences into stars.

You are the architect of my unbecoming,
the pulse of my reclamation.

In your arms, the axis shifts,
a fierce hymn rising from quiet.

You unlace the day with a deliberate breath,
and I let myself love you—
not for reason,
but because resistance feels futile
in the face of you.

The stitches holding my wound break, one by one,

For the memory of you is a blade upon my flesh.

I gave you my heart as the river gives to the sea,

And you returned it, torn, yet heavy with your shadow.

Now I carry both the pain and the wisdom it has sown.