The devil couldn’t reach me,
so he whispered through the cracks
of people I loved.
He wore their faces,
borrowed their voices,
and spoke in tones
I couldn’t ignore.

The devil couldn’t reach me,
so he placed battles in my mind,
made me question my worth,
turned silence into knives,
turned mirrors into enemies.

The devil couldn’t reach me,
so he sat patiently,
knowing I’d carve my own wounds,
knowing I’d fight myself harder
than he ever could.

evil doesn’t always arrive
with fire and horns.
Sometimes it arrives
as the shadow of your own thoughts,
and smiles
because you never notice
you’re the one holding the blade.

The world is full of places that once held voiced,
Now only dust.
Windows stare empty,
Glass long shattered,
Yet you can almost hear the echo of laughter,
The hum of a life that used to exist there.

Chairs still wait at tables for meals never served.
Curtains hang like ghosts.
Breathing with the wind.
Paint peels like forgotten skin,
Walls hold secrets they will never tell.

Abandoned places are not empty.
They are heavy weighted with memories,
With footsteps that linger,
With stories cut short.

We call them ruins,
But they are more like mirrors
reminding us that nothing we built
lasts forever.
And everything we leave behind
becomes a monument
to how quickly we vanish.

I tell myself I’m fine because I’m moving.
I wake up,
I shower,
I show up to school with the right words,
The practiced smile.
I laugh hard enough to pass the test.
But the truth is quieter.

I dissociate in the shower,
Watch the water slip from my hands like time I can’t touch.
I sit on the edge of my bed after waking up,
Staring at the floor as if it might tell me how to keep going.

I scroll at night,
Thumb aching,
Mind empty,
Searching for nothing but distraction from everything.

It’s not laziness.
It’s not disinterest.
This half-alive state where I can still perform but every step costs more than I have.

That’s why I’m exhausted.
That’s why I can be so social at school yet let every message rot unanswered once I’m home.

I am not cold.
I am not careless.
I am frozen moving just enough to look alive.
While inside,
I am standing still.

We draw lines in the sand,
On maps,
On walks,
On hearts.
Lines that tell us who belongs,
And who doenst.
Lines that turn neighbours into strangers,
Friends into foes.

We call them borders,
Boundaries,
Nations,
Rules.
As if paper and paint could hold back rivers,
Winds,
Or the puls of a living world.

But the earth doesn’t care.
A bird crosses them without through,
The ocean swallows them whole.
Only we insist on dividing what is meant to flow.
And still,
We fight,
Still we guard our invincible fences,
Forgetting that humanity is not a grid of lines but a shared breath,
A common pulse,
A single home.

What if we erased them?
What if we stopped pretending that lines could make sense of life,
And finally remember that de belong to each other first?

You wish for what cannot be,
For doors that will never open,
For hands that will never hold yours.
You trace the edges of a dream that slips like water through your fingers,
And every heartbeat stretches into a quiet ache you cannot name.

Hope blooms in your chest like a fragile flower in winter soil.
Beautiful,
Stubborn,
And destined to wither.

Every “what if” is a small knife,
Twisting just enough to remind you that reality does not bend for longing.
And yet you reach,
Again and again,
As if the hurt were proof of life itself,
Forgetting that some stars cannot be caught,
Some rivers cannot be turned.

Wishing for the impossible does not make you brave.
It leaves you raw,
Tender to the world,
Bleeding quietly
For something
That was never yours to hold.

There’s something in me that I cannot name,
A quiet pulse beneath my ribs that huls the wrong note in every brat of my heart.

It moves with me,
Breathed with me,
A shadow switched into my skin that no light can touch,
No words can capture,
No one can see.

It whispers in mirrors,
Tugs at my reflection,
Makes familiar faces look foreign,
Makes my own hands feel like strangers.
I cannot show it,
Cannot speak it,
Cannot explain why the world sometimes feels heavy,
Why laughter tastes hollow,
Why silence cuts deeper than noice.

And still I carry it.
Still,
I walk,
Still,
I smile,
Still,
I try to be whole with a shadow that refuses to leave.

Perhaps one day,
I’ll learn its name,
Or perhaps I’ll walk
My whole life
With a companion
I never chose,
Never wanted,
But cannot escape.

Every time you reach back for a memory,
You think you’re replaying a tape.
But it isn’t a tape it’s wet clay in your hands,
Reshaped the moment you touch it.
Your first kiss,
The fight that broke you,
The day you swore you’d never forget.

They’re all ghosts you’ve rewritten,
Paintings smeared by each glance.
What you’ve told yourself so many times you’ve forgotten the original script.
You can no longer tell where the real ends and the lie begins.

The past you swear by,
The moments you’d die to defend,
They may never have happened the way you remember.

Memory is not a photograph.
It’s a rumour your brain repeats until even you believe it.

If your own memories are lies we can’t untangle,
Then what,
If anything,
Is truly real?

Even the brightest things are born in shadow.
A star does not glow without the night to hold it.

Do why do we curse the dark as if it is only enemy?
It is the canvas,
the contrast,
the reason we see the light at all.

Your struggles,
The nights you think swallow you whole are not proof of weakness,
But proof that you too are becoming something that can burn through the void.

Even the stars,
Those endless fires,
Need darkness
To be seen.
And so do you.

The moon has no light if it’s own,
Yet we look up in awe,
As if it were burning.

It does not speak,
Yet it has heard more confessions than any priest,
More secrets than any diary.

We stare at its scars those ancient craters,
Those wounds from stones long forgotten.
And still call it beautiful.
Proof perhaps,
That even broken surfaces can shine.
It shines by borrowing,
By reflecting,
By being a mirror to the sun.

You do not need to burn to be seen.  
You do not need to be the source to matter.

And maybe,
The greatest lesson it gives us is that darkness is not the opposite of light,
It is the canvas for it.
Without the night,
The moon would vanish.
Without struggle, we would never learn that even borrowed light can change the world.

A reminder carved into the sky
That even in our emptiness,
We can still glow.

They tell us ghosts are restless,
drifting through shadows,
trapped between worlds
but what if they are guardians,
lingering not out of torment,
but love?

What if the creak in the hallway isn’t to scare you,
but to remind you youre not alone?
What if the chill in your skin is their hand pressing gently,
a shield you cannot see?

They wander, but not lost.
They wander to follow us,
to stand where we cannot look,
to fight battles we never knew brushed so close to our lives.

And maybe that’s why we dream of them because while we sleep,
they’re still awake,
keeping the night from breking us.

Ghosts are not always grief.
Sometimes,
they are love
that refused to leave

I would like to think that Somewhere,
a tree once sprouted
the very day I took my first breath
its leaves reaching for light
as I learned to open my eyes.

That it grew in silence
as I laughed,
cried,
broke,
healed
marking each year
in quiet rings beneath its bark.

It never knew my name,
and I never knew its shade.
Yet still,
it stood
growing beside me
like some secret twin of time.

And that on the day I leave this world,
it will too.
cut down
as if the world knew
our stories
were meant to end together.

A life
mirrored in roots and branches,
never crossed paths
but somehow,
it would understand me
better than most ever would.

It’s not sadness,
not really.
It’s the space after the storm,
where nothing grows,
and nothing dies.

It’s not the tears,
it’s the absence of them.
Eyes dry,
but not clear.
Just blank.

You remember when you used to feel things.
Songs would split you open,
sunsets made you cry,
a laugh could save you.
Now you just nod
and pretend.

They ask,
“Are you okay?”
And you say,
“Yeah.”
Because you don’t know what else to say
when nothing’s really wrong
and everything is.

It’s like watching your life
through a fogged up window.
you’re there,
but not really.

Not sad,
not happy,
just
here.

Breathing,
but not alive.
Moving,
but not living.

And the scariest part is,
you start to get used to it.
Like numbness is safer
than pain.

Like feeling nothing
is easier
than risking
everything.

You miss
missing things.
You miss
feeling full,
or even broken.
You’d take pain
if it meant
you could still feel alive.

But for now you hope that
just maybe
something warm
will reach you
before you forget
what warmth even means.

Time doesn’t knock.
it slips in quietly,
moves the furniture of our lives
without asking.

One moment you’re laughing
in a summer you thought would never end,
and then
you’re standing in a room
that feels smaller somehow,
wondering
where all the hours went.

Time is a thief
with soft hands.
It steals slowly,
but takes everything.

It doesn’t stop for joy,
or grief,
or love that begs to last.
It simply moves forward,
never once
looking back.

We try to hold it.
in photos,
in memories,
in words spoken like spells
to make a moment stay.

But nothing stays.

Time reshapes us,
rewrites us,
reminds us that even mountains
were once dust.

And yet
within its passing,
there’s meaning.

A heartbeat is precious
because it’s borrowed.
A smile matters
because it ends.

So love now.
Forgive now.
Say the thing
you keep saving for later.

Because time waits
for no one.
But it listens
to those who truly live.

There are things
that make your heart race
for no logical reason.
A sound,
a story,
a brushstroke,
a sky full of stars.
And when you speak of it,
your voice lifts,
your eyes light
like morning windows.

That’s passion.

And not everyone gets it.
They might laugh,
or tilt their head,
not seeing the way it blooms in you  
the way it feels like
home and thunder
all at once.

But that’s okay.
It’s not theirs to hold.
It’s yours.

Because passion doesn’t ask permission.
It burns in you quietly
or wildly.
but always,
it’s honest.

It’s the thing that keeps you alive
when the world goes dim.
The thing that pulls you back to yourself
when you start to drift.
The thing you’d do
even if no one clapped.
Even if no one looked.

So let yourself burn
for what you love.
There’s nothing wrong
with the fire.
only with a world
that fears the heat.

You said it
maybe in a joke,
maybe in anger,
maybe without thinking.
but you said it.

And no matter how fast the apology came,
how quick you tried to laugh it off,
how much you claimed you didn’t mean it,
my heart
heard it anyway.

Words don’t always echo
where you throw them,
they land in people.
in soft spots they never showed you.
They burrow.
They stay.

It was just a joke,
you say,
but it wasn’t funny to the part of me
already wondering if it was true.

It was just heat of the moment,
but the burn still lingers
long after you’ve cooled down.

You may forget,
but I replay it.
quietly,
in the small hours,
wondering if that’s how you really see me
when you’re not trying to be kind.

They say words don’t wound.
but that’s only said
by those who’ve never
bled on the inside.

Because here’s the thing about words,
you can’t unsay them.
You can only hope
the person you said them to
wasn’t already breaking
before you did.

There are billions of faces
in this spinning world,
but not one
is yours.

Not one laughs like you,
thinks like you,
dreams in your exact colors.
Your voice is a note
never sung before.
not quite like this,
not quite by anyone.

You are a fingerprint
pressed gently into time.
Unrepeatable.
Unrehearsed.
The only version of your soul
this world will ever meet.

It’s wild.

To be made of stars
and blood
and memory.
but arranged in a way
that has never existed before
and never will again.

You are a once in forever echo.
And while you walk among millions,
no one can carry your story
the way you do.

And never forget:

You are not just “another.”

You are the only.

When the world goes quiet,
and the body surrenders.
where do you go?

In sleep,
we fall through time
without falling,
touch faces
we’ve never seen,
grieve things
that never happened.
And still,
we wake up aching.
Why?

What if dreams
aren’t just brain static or broken memories,
but something sacred,
an ancient language
your soul still remembers
even if you don’t?

You float.
You fall.
You fly.
You meet people
you’ve never seen,
but somehow you know them.
Places you’ve never been
feel more like home
than the house you wake up in.

What if every dream
is a message,
a mirror,
a map.
but only if you’re still enough
to listen?

What if they mean something?
What if they mean everything?

And maybe
we’ll never know for sure.
But still,
each night,
we close our eyes
and enter that strange, sacred place
as if we’re trying
to remember
something the daylight
won’t let us see.

Some say your soul leaves your body at night
and wanders.
Touches other worlds.
Crosses timelines.
Meets souls it once knew
before the name you wear now
existed.

Maybe,
what we call “sleep”
is the real awakening.

And waking up?
That’s the dream
we keep returning to.

It happens in a blink,
a breath,
a room,
a word you swear
you’ve already heard.
Not just heard,
lived.

You freeze.
The world tilts sideways.
Your body is present
but your soul is looking backward,
grasping at a memory
that was never yours to begin with.

You’ve never been in this place.
And yet,
you remember the light
falling exactly like this.
The way someone laughs.
The way your heart pauses,
like it’s waiting
for something you forgot to forget.

It feels like
a whisper from another life,
a crack in the timeline,
a glitch in the loop.
A version of you
that once stood
right here,
saying the same thing,
feeling this exact ache
in your chest.

Maybe time folds.
Maybe memory leaks.
Maybe the universe repeats itself
in soft echoes,
hoping we’ll notice
how connected it all really is.

Or maybe
it’s the soul remembering
what the mind can’t explain—
a dream we walked through
before this life began.
A quiet nudge
that we’ve been here
before.

Even if we haven’t.

Why do we dissect the stars
instead of letting them simply shine?
Why must every silence
be filled with a reason,
every feeling
pinned down and labeled,
like butterflies behind glass?

Why do we fear the unknown
more than we fear missing its beauty?
Why do we tug at mystery
like it owes us an answer?

Some things
are meant to be felt,
not solved.
A laugh that comes too fast.
A dream that makes no sense.
A person you just click with
no explanation,
just connection.

We weren’t built
to hold all the answers.
We were built
to stand in awe.
To wonder.
To feel.
To sit in the quiet
and let it speak without words.

Maybe the point
isn’t to understand everything,
but to trust
that not everything needs to be understood
to be real.

Some truths
don’t live in facts.
they live in the way your chest rises
at the sight of the ocean,
or how someone’s voice
can feel like home
even when it says nothing at all.

Let go of needing to know.
And you might finally see.

We are soft things
on a spinning rock,
with hearts too big
for the skin that holds them.

We cry over songs
and laugh in places
we were once broken.
We hold each other like lifelines.
because sometimes,
we are.

Strangers become soulmates
in coffee shop lines,
on sidewalks,
in passing glances that feel like déjà vu.
A shared joke.
A favorite movie.
A song we both scream in the car
with the windows down.
Somehow,
we just get each other.

We create art
from the ache.
Paint galaxies
on bedroom ceilings.
Turn “I miss you”
into music,
and pain
into poetry.

We find beauty
in the ordinary:
sunlight through curtains,
the way someone says our name
softly,
like they mean it.

Yes. there is war.
There is grief.
There is so much we don’t understand.
But there’s also
birthday candles,
random hugs,
midnight walks with friends
who make the silence feel full.

We love so hard
even when we’re scared.
We show up,
even when it hurts.
And when the sky falls,
we rebuild,
together.

So if you ever wonder
what’s still good in this world,
look around:

We’re still laughing.
Still reaching.
Still dancing
in the ruins.
Still human.

And somehow,
that’s enough
to believe in.

You breathe,
and the world shifts.

Not in earthquakes or avalanches,
but in the soft tremors
of someone watching you smile
and deciding to stay
one more day.

You pass a stranger,
and they carry your laughter
into a room
that was too quiet
until you echoed there.

We don’t notice
how much we bleed into each other.
in glances,
in silences,
in words we don’t remember saying
but someone else never forgets.

A comment tossed off
in boredom
becomes a bruise
on someone else’s skin.
A simple “you okay?”
becomes the thread
someone clings to
when they’re unraveling.

We are not islands.
We are oceans.
waves crashing into waves,
pulling and pushing,
changing tides
without even knowing.

So be kind.
Or at least,
be aware.

Because whether you mean to or not,
you leave something
in everyone you touch.

And they leave something in you.

We’re not just living our lives.
we’re shaping them
together.

They say
a butterfly ***** its wings
in a quiet corner of the world.
and halfway across it,
a storm begins.

But no one tells you
how often
you are the butterfly.

The smile you gave
a stranger
on a day they thought of leaving.
The message you didn’t send.
The one you did.
The fight you started.
The hug you almost didn’t give.

How many lives have you altered
without ever knowing?
How many moments have you shaped
by simply existing,
in the right or wrong place,
at the quietest time?

We chase purpose
like it’s some grand, loud thing,
a legacy,
a title,
a monument with our name on it.

But maybe
you already changed the world
when you held the door open
for someone
who swore no one saw them.
When you stayed.
Or when you left.

What a strange kind of power
to ruin or redeem
with things we barely remember doing.

So move gently,
and with meaning.
Not out of fear,
but reverence.
You never know
who’s standing in the storm
your wings created.

Eyes.
they don’t just look,
they speak.
Not in words,
but in storms,
in softness,
in silence that says too much.

You can lie with your mouth,
but your eyes.
they confess.
Every fear,
every ache you’ve buried
behind a smile
lives there.

They hold childhood,
heartbreak,
hope you swore was gone.
They carry the weight
of sleepless nights
and things you couldn’t say
when it mattered most.

You learn to read them.
not the color,
but the story.
Some are locked windows.
Some, open wounds.
Some shimmer with something
you almost recognize—
maybe love,
maybe loneliness.

And sometimes,
you meet a pair
that feels like home.
Not because they’re perfect,
but because they see you
without asking you
to perform.

Eyes.
they don’t need permission
to feel.
And when you meet the right ones,
you don’t need to speak at all.

They burn
millions of miles away.
ancient fires
pinned to velvet black,
soft and distant
yet somehow
deeply ours.

We look up
as if they’re listening,
as if they know our names.
Maybe they do.
Maybe they don’t.
But something about their stillness
makes us speak anyway.

They were there
when we first whispered love,
when we cried into the night,
when we asked the sky
if we’d ever feel whole again.

And they blinked,
silent,
enduring,
not answering,
but not turning away either.

We make wishes
on collapsing light,
hoping the fall
means something.
Maybe it does.
Maybe it’s just our way
of believing
in something beautiful
despite the dark.

Because the stars,
they don’t fix us.
They remind us
we’re small
and that being small
doesn’t mean being unseen.

The soul
is not skin,
not bone,
not something you can point to
or name.

It’s the ache behind the smile,
the tremble before truth,
the way your chest tightens
when a song knows you
better than you know yourself.

It’s memory,
tied in threads of scent and sound.
It’s grief that lingers
in a room long emptied,
and love
you still feel
for someone long gone.

It carries every version
of who you’ve been.
the child who dreamed,
the teen who feared,
the adult still learning
what it means to be whole.

The soul bruises quietly.
It celebrates in silence.
It’s heavy with things
no one else sees,
but it still shines
in your laugh,
in your quiet kindness,
in the way you keep going.

And maybe that’s the soul’s secret:
it can break
and still glow
like something holy
trying
to make this life
mean something.

I see you between bells, in the rush of bodies and the echo of lockers slamming shut.
You don’t know me,
Not really,
But I know the way your smile breaks sideways,
How your laugh drifts down the hall like a song I don’t know the lyrics to,
But hum anyway.

Two weeks left.
Fourteen days
to maybe say something,
Or nothing at all.

Maybe I’ll keep pretending I’m not looking
When you pass,
Or maybe I’ll finally meet your eyes before the hallway goes silent.

Summer break is almost there.
I fear you’ll change school,
Or stay.
Maybe by then you’ll already have a girlfriend.

And I’ll wonder
What might’ve happened
If I just
Said
Hi.

Depression doesn’t disappear,
it doesn’t pack up and leave.
It waits,
sometimes heavy,
sometimes light,
like a shadow folding in on itself.

Some days, it’s loud,
an echo in every breath,
a weight that drags you under.
Other days, it’s a whisper,
a quiet ache beneath the noise.

It doesn’t vanish,
it just learns to share space,
grows smaller,
so you can breathe,
so you can stand,
so you can hope.

Healing isn’t a clean break.
it’s living
with the quiet parts,
letting them fade
until they no longer own you.

But it never really disappears,
it just gets easier living with it.

They say time heals.
but some things don’t fade.
Not really.

Days pass,
weeks blur into months,
years stretch on,
and yet,
it sneaks back in.

A sudden thought,
a whisper in the quiet,
a shadow in the corner of a smile.

I try to move,
to let go,
to breathe without it clutching my chest.
but it won’t leave.

It lingers...
a ghost,
a weight,
a question without an answer.

No matter how far I run,
or how much I build new walls.
it’s still here.

Waiting.

Moving on isn’t forgetting.
It’s learning how to live
with what stays.

You see me laughing, smiling,
like I’ve got it all together,
like the world is mine to hold.

But look closer,
beyond the light in my eyes,
past the easy words,
beneath the surface of this calm.

There’s a storm I don’t speak of,
a weight I carry alone,
moments I swallow
so no one has to see.

I’m tired of pretending,
but I wear the mask
because it’s easier
than explaining the cracks.

Now, pause for a second.
and ask yourself,
who around you
is wearing the same mask?

Who smiles for you,
while quietly breaking?

Because sometimes,
the strongest people
are the ones who feel the most.

So if you see a smile,
don’t just see the smile.
see the story waiting to be told.

And maybe,
just maybe,
reach out before it’s too late.

The best thing about a picture
is that it never changes,
even when the people in it do.

A smile caught,
a laugh paused,
a moment stolen
from a river that never stops flowing.

In that still frame,
we are forever young,
forever whole.
before time pulled us apart,
before the cracks showed,
before the silence grew.

It holds what we lost,
what we forgot to keep,
what faded
while we were busy changing.

The best thing about a picture
is that it never changes.
and in it,
A single frame
holding forever
what time refuses to keep.

Cancer doesn’t crash in
like a storm.
It seeps in.
Quiet.
Cruel.
Certain.

It starts with a phone call,
a strange tone in someone’s voice,
a word you never wanted to hear
said out loud in a room that
suddenly forgets how to breathe.

And from there,
the world splits.

The person you love
still smiles,
still says they’re fine.
but the light behind their eyes
flickers.
Their body becomes a battlefield
no one asked to fight on.

You watch them shrink
while trying to stay brave.
Trying to laugh through nausea.
Trying to hide pain
like it’s a gift
to keep you from worrying.

And it steals them
bit by bit.
hair,
weight,
strength,
hope.

It doesn’t care
if they were kind,
if they were needed.

It just takes.

And the worst part?
You can’t hate it out loud.
Can’t punch it.
Can’t reason with it.
Can’t make it stop.

All you can do
is hold their hand
until one day
you can’t.

And you’re left
with a silence
that screams.

Some mornings,
I catch myself in the mirror
and think,
maybe.
Maybe I look okay today.
Pretty, even.

But then a photo appears,
a tag,
a candid,
a frozen frame I didn’t choose.
And suddenly,
my smile feels crooked,
my face too round,
my eyes unsure of themselves.

I tilt my head,
try to see what others might,
but I never find it.
Not really.

My friends,
they shine like they were born to.
Like their beauty just exists
without effort.
I stand beside them
and shrink.
Even on my best days,
I feel like the shadow
in someone else’s light.

And it hurts.
To want to feel beautiful
and never fully get there.
To wonder if I’m the only one
who sees this stranger in my skin.
If maybe I’m just broken
in how I see myself.

I wish I could borrow your eyes
just for a second—
to know if the ugly I see
is real,
or just something I’ve learned
to believe.

Because I want to feel
what they say I am.
Not just sometimes.
Not just almost.

But truly.

I fear the end
more than I show.
Not the darkness,
but the silence
that follows.
The idea that one day,
the sun will rise
and I won’t.

So I savor things
too much.
The way light filters
through morning blinds.
The laugh I wasn’t expecting.
The song that hits
just right.
I notice everything,
because I’m scared
it could be the last time
I do.

I hold people longer.
Say “I love you” more.
Take photos of nothing
just to prove I was here,
that this happened,
that I lived.

Sometimes,
the fear keeps me up.
Other times,
it pushes me to dance
in the middle of my room
at 1 a.m.
like I’ve got forever.

I want to live
like it matters.
Because it does.
Even if no one remembers.
Even if the ending
is quiet.

I'm not ready to go.
So while I’m here.
I’ll hold tighter,
breathe deeper,
and love like it’s
the only thing
that makes us
immortal.

My mind doesn’t whisper,
it loops.
Spins circles out of silence,
makes meaning from a glance,
a pause,
a word
that maybe meant nothing at all.

I replay conversations
like they’re evidence.
Did I say too much?
Not enough?
Did they mean what I think they meant—
or am I just making storms
out of weather that passed?

I overanalyze the smile I gave,
the message I sent,
the second it took them to reply.
I measure worth
in milliseconds,
build whole tragedies
from tiny moments.

People say,
“Just stop thinking about it.”
Like that’s something
I haven’t already begged my brain
a thousand times to do.

I want peace.
But my peace
comes “what ifs,”
with echoes of things
no one else remembers
but me.

It's exhausting,
to feel everything
twice.
once when it happens,
and then forever after
in my head.

I do things
before my thoughts can catch them.
Say yes
before the question’s finished.
Cut my hair at midnight,
text what I shouldn’t,
leave when I should stay
and stay when I should run.

I chase feelings
like fireflies,
even when they burn.
Jump in deep
without checking
if I can swim.
I live in now.
Only now.
Because tomorrow always feels
too far,
too fake.

It’s not always brave.
Sometimes it’s messy.
Sometimes it’s regret
knocking at 3 a.m.
with a list of everything
I should’ve done
differently.

But in the chaos
there’s truth.
In the sparks,
there’s life.

I don’t always get it right.
I rarely get it calm.
But I get it real.

I never think twice.
And somehow,
that’s where I feel most like
myself.

I bite.
Not with teeth.
with silence,
with sharp glances,
with walls built higher than your reach.

I’m not cruel.
I’m just tired
of being kind first
and torn apart second.

You call it attitude.
I call it armor.
Because being soft
never saved me.
It only made the fall hurt more.

So I speak less now.
Agree less.
Trust less.
I pull away before someone has the chance
to walk out first.

It’s not that I don’t want love.
I’ve learned that even “I care about you”
can come with conditions.
Even soft hands
can leave bruises
you can’t see.

I bite
because once,
I didn’t.
And it nearly broke me.

Don’t tell me what’s holy when your visions of heaven sounds like chains.
You say i’m free but only if I kneel.
Only if I speak your truth instead of mine.

You hand me a rulebook written in fear,
Marked with sins for simply being human.
Cover your hair,
Lower your voice,
Don’t feel that,
Don’t love them,
Don’t question,
Don’t doubt.

You say ‘god’ watches,
But it feels more like you are.

Policing bodies,
Minds,
And voiced that dare to excuse outside your lines.
Faith should never feel like a muzzle.
Worship should not be forced into trembling hands.

Believe if you believe.
But don’t make me carry the weight of a ‘god’ I didn’t choose.
Don’t call it salvation if it begins with fear.
Let me think.
Let me feel.
Let me choose what is sacred to me.

Because truth,
If it matters at all,
Shouldn’t need
To be forced.

We take and take and still,
We want more.
Forests fall to feed our hunger for things we don’t need.
Oceans choke on the waste we pretend disappears.
The sky dims from smoke we lit just to feel bigger.

We built high and call it progress.
We cover green with gray and call it growth.
But it’s decay,
Dressed in convenience.

We act like kings of a world we didn’t create,
Forgetting we are guests here,
No more scared than wolves,
The sea whales,
The trees,
The silence.

We speak of saving the earth as if it’s seperate from us,
When in reality.
We’re trying to save ourselves from what we’ve done.

We had enough.
We still do.
But enough was never the goal.
We wanted more,
And more has always meant less for everything else.

One day,
The earth will go on without us.
I hope it does.
It would be better without us.
It’s us who are not guaranteed.

Poetry is how I bleed without the mess.
How I speak when my voice wont come out clean.  

It starts as a weight,
A feeling without a name,
A storm sitting in my chest asking for shape.
So I give it words.
Not perfect ones, but honest.
Soft where it hurts, sharp where I hide.

Each line is a thread pulled straight from the center of what I can’t explain in small talk or passing glances.
It’s not just writing,
It’s translating the language of the inside into something others might read and feel and say,
“Me too”
That’s the magic.

Poetry makes pain visible,
Makes love echo,
Makes silence speak.

It’s lot just mine anymore once it’s written,
It becomes something I share,
It becomes theirs too.

And suddenly,
We’re not so alone anymore.

We come from the same earth,
Breaths borrowed from the same sky,
We all have the same beginning and ending.
We share this world,
Laugh when others laugh,
Smile when others do.

A nod,
A smile,
A simple gesture that can tilt a day from dark to light.

In crowded streets,
Musicians play,
Pulling strangers close.

We are all connected to each other in a loop that never ends.
We are not different.
We breath the same air.
Walk the same earth
Live in the same world.
So why draw lines,
Call each other illegal in a world we all share?
Why built walls when we could built bridges?
Why fight for power,
When together we hold strength to lift,
To heal,
To rise?

Stronger together, right?
But we don’t see that
Even though
Together,
We are one.

Some of us weren’t made to float through life with thick skin or careless hearts.
We carry everything,
the lyrics no one hears that wraps around our throat,
A movie scene etched beneath our ribs,
A stranger’s tone that breaks the day,
A kindness that stitched it back whole.

We replay moments, masterpieces and Battlegrounds, sometimes both at once.

Words hang heavy,
Memories shadow us,
Small gestures crash like thunder,
And silence?
Silence screams.

Music doenst just play, it unlocks doors we though we’re sealed,
Brings us back to lost lovers,
Forgotten names,
Moments still unfolding that ache like nostalgia.

They say,
“You’re too sensitive”
“You take everything to heart”
But where else do we carry it?

Our hearts unguarded,
Our souls laid bare,
Maybe this is what the world needs,
The ones who feel too much,
So no pain or joy ever goes unseen.

Because feeling,
Is the most human thing there is.

Depression isn’t always tears and empty bottles.
Sometimes, it’s brushing your teeth and feeling like that was too much.
It’s staring at a wall for hours and calling it rest.
Its smiling so no one asks what’s wrong, because you don’t even know what to say.

It’s nog sadness.
It’s less.
Less feeling.
Less colour.
Less will.
Less you.

You wake up already tired.
You go to bed hoping you won’t wake up.
You function, but its mechanical.
smiling like you’re on autopilot, nodding through conversations.
You cancel plans saying this a headache.
You reply late,
Then feel guilty.
But even guilt takes too much energy.

They say,
“Just talk to someone”
But how do you explain a sadness that doesn’t  have a reason?
How do you open your mouth and describe the way it hurts to just be alive?
So you say,
“I’m fine”
Over and over, until it sounds like your name.

If you relate,
If this feels too close,
Please know it’s not your fault.
You’re not broken.
You’re not weak.
You’re carrying something no one else can.
And even if it feels endless,
Even if you can’t see light right now.

Youre still here.
And that means something.
You mean something.

Someways, i punish myself by eating too much.
Other days, I punish myself by not eating at all.
Either way, I call it control.
But it feels like drowning.

The mirror isn’t glass anymore,
It’s a weapon.
A judge.
A liar I keep believing.

It whispers,
“Too much”
“Not enough”
“Look at you”
So I look.
Too long.
Too often.
Until the reflection wraps int something monstrous I swear wasn’t there yesterday.

I swing between hunger and shame.
Between craving comfort and punishing myself for needing at all.

I eat and hate myself.
I starve and hate myself.
It’s never really about food.
It’s about guilt.
I skip meals and call it discipline.
I binge and call it failure.

If you’ve never hated your own body,
Really hated it, then you wont understand how deep it goes.
But if you do, if it feels familiar.
I see you.
And I hope one day you’ll look in the mirror and see something kinder.
Something whole.
Something worth saving.
Because you are.

Its not always a cry for attention.
Sometimes, it’s the only way to silence a storm no one else can hear.

It’s not about death.
It’s about feeling something,
Anything in the numb.
It’s pain trying to make itself known in a world that doesn’t listen unless you bleed.

People say,
“Why would anyone do that to themselves?”
As if pain always waits for permission.
It’s easier to hurt yourself than to explain the emptiness.  
Because how does someone say,
“I don’t want to die, but sometimes I don’t wont to exist either.”
Without scaring others away?

If someone tells you they’re hurting,
Don’t flinch.
Don’t turn it into silence.
Don’t make them feel like their truth is too sharp for your comfort.
Be the reason they don’t have to prove their pain to be believed.
Be the voice that doesn’t look away.

So ask again.
Ask gently.
Ask like you mean it.
Because someone near you might be bleeding in ways you can’t see.

And what to what you next might be the reason
They stay.

It doesn’t always look like crying.
Sometimes it’s just silence that stays too long.
It’s the half-smile,
The “I’m fine”
That sounds just convincing enough to stop the questions.

And when you finally slip,
They say,
“They should’ve said something”
“I didn’t know it was that bad”
“Why didn’t they just ask for help?”
But help starts to feel like guilt.
Like handing your pain to someone who’s already got their own.

So you stay quiet.
You try.
Until you can’t anymore.

People light candles for a soul they never saw burning.
And just like that,
you become
Important.
Valuable.
Tragic.
Because people only care once you’re gone.

So if you’re here,
Still breathing,
Still hurting.
Let this be proof
That your silence is speaking.
That someone is listening.
That even on the days you feel invisible,
You are not

Please stay.

If I disappeared,
Not loud,
Not dramatic,
Not quietly,
Like the last page of a book ripped out and never missed.
Would anyone notice?
Would silence shift?
Would my name feel heavy in a sentence or just,
Trail off?

You see me,
But do you really?
Or just the version
That doesn’t cry too loud,
Doesn’t make things heavy,
Performs what’s easier to like?

I’ve been heavy for a long time,
Just never when youre looking.

I say
“I’m fine”
Like it’s the only language I know.
I burn without making smoke.
And maybe that the tragedy, not the leaving,
But how easy it is to be gone while still standing there.

If I just disappeared,
Would the world adjust,
Or would it ache?

Look around and ask yourself,
Who around me might already be half-gone?

They say,
“everything happens for a reason”
But what if the reason is just that there’s no reason at all?
What if the ‘reason’ is just a word we use to quiet the chaos,
To soothe the ache that won’t be silenced by hope?

Sometimes,
Things just happen.
Bad things.
Unfair things.

And the world doenst care to explain.
Things just happen.
They crash and burn
Without meaning,
Without purpose,
Without a plan.

The pain, it’s not a lesson.
It’s not a fate’s whisper.
It’s chaos knocking,
A cruel roll of dice that no one asked to play.

I don’t think the universe cares about justice or balance.
It doenst pause to explain
Why hearts break,
Why dreams shatter,
Why silence sometimes screams louder than any answer ever could.

Sometimes,
Life just happens.
And that is the only truth I need to hold.

Sometimes, I think I want to disappear.
To melt into the background do no one can ask me what wrong when I don’t know how to answer.

I think about vanishing,
Slipping between cracks where no one looks,
No one calls,
No one noticed the space I leave behind.
But the truth is,
I don’t want to be gone.
I want to be searched for.
Feel missing.

I want someone to say,
“I see you”
and mean it.

Because disappearing isn’t about fading,
It’s about wanting someone to pull you back.
To look past your
“I’m fine”
and ask again.
To see the version of you that’s curled up in silence,
Hoping someone heard the echo of everything you didn’t say.

I don’t want to be lost.
I just want to be found.
Not by everyone, just by someone who wont leave when I stop shining.
Someone who notices the dimming light and stays anyway.

So no,
I don’t want to dissapear
I just want proof
That if I did,
Someone would come looking.

They ask me, “how are you?”
And I open my mouth but all that comes out is,
“I don’t know”

It’s not a lie.
It’s not the truth either.
It’s the fog I live in,
The static in my chest where answer used to live.

How do you explain that you feel everything and nothing a true same time?
That your heart is full and hollow in the same breath?
Sometimes I do know.
I know I’m sad.
I know I’m tired.
I know I feel like I’m slowly slipping and no one notices.

But if I say that,
They’ll worry and I can’t carry that too.
So I say “I don’t know”
Because maybe if I don’t say it out loud,
It wont be real.
Because maybe if I pretend not to feel,
I’ll stop feeling so much.

I say it with a shrug,
With a half-smile,
Like it’s nothing.
But inside, it’s everything.
Everything I can’t say,
Everything I’ve buried.

And when you nod an move on,
I almost wish
You’d ask again.

Ive mastered the art of shrinking.
Of softening my ‘no’ int o a maybe just to keep the peace.
I mold myself into what they need,
A smile here,
A favour there,
A thousand yeses when my bones are begging for rest.

They call me kind.
Helpful.
Easy to be around.
But no one sees the cracks beneath the polished version of me I perform on autopilot.

I say sorry for simply existing too loudly.
I apologise when someone else hurt me.
I carry guilt like it’s mine to own, even when it was never meant for me.

And the truth is,
I don’t know what I want anymore.
I’ve been so busy being what everyone else needed that I lost shape of who I was before the pleasing became survival.
Because if they’re happy,
Then maybe I’m safe.
Then maybe I’ll be enough.
Then maybe they’ll stay.

I wonder,
Who would still like me
If I stopped trying so hard?