You come in bare, no map, no guide,
Just a breath and the world's weight,
Thrown into a place that makes you decide
What's real, what's fake, what's worth the wait.

They don't tell you the path's a maze,
Where every turn's a guess,
And pain becomes the price you pay
To learn what's love and what's a mess.

You step forward, bruised and blind,
But every fall, you start to see:
Your truth's a thing you have to find-
It's never handed, it's just free.

So you build, you fight, you learn to stand,
And the world will try to tear it down,
But you've got to hold what's in your hands,
Or you'll let them turn your crown.

It's easy to lose yourself in them,
To shape yourself for others' eyes,
But once you know your worth, you'll bend
For no one else, and never disguise.

Because living for their hate or praise
Is a cage you've built from fear,
But once you trust in your own ways,
You'll walk free, loud, and clear.

We scroll past bombs
and birthday cakes,
same thumb, same blank face.
Someone dies,
someone dances,
and we just keep going.

We smile in filters,
cry in dark corners,
say "I'm fine"
with a voice that shakes.

We love in likes,
break hearts in silence,
chase meaning in memes
and call it connection.

The world spins on-
****** and blooming,
a garden grown from graves.
It's cruel.
It's gorgeous.
And somehow,
we're still here-
half broken, half trying.
all human.

I've never had a five-year plan.
Sometimes, I barely have a Tuesday plan.
But here I am-
heart in one hand, snack in the other,
trying my best not to overthink my own breathing.

People say "be yourself"
like that's a simple thing.
But I've been about five different people this week
and honestly?
They all had good points.

I've felt everything and nothing
at the exact same time,
and let me tell you-
it's a weird party.
No one knows who brought the chips.

I've forgiven myself
for things I still flinch about.
I've moved on
without moving anywhere.
I've stood still
and felt the earth sprint underneath me.

No, I'm not lost.
I'm just...in progress.
A draft.
A half-done thought with great potential.

And maybe that's enough.
Maybe I'm enough
even when I don't feel like a poem.
Just a scribble
with really good timing.

You lost things
that had names.

Dreams,
people,
parts of yourself
you'll never fully get back.

But you still open your chest
to the wind.
You still say yes.

And that-
that is holy.

Love didn't save you.
But you loved anyway.

That's the kind of brave
they don't put into stories.

They said it gets better-
they never said when.

So you stitched light
into the edges of your pain
and called it surviving.

But some nights,
you fell joy
with no warning.

And that's enough.