Some days I wear my smile
like armor made of glass
fragile at the edges,
but enough to let me pass.

My mind’s a crowded station,
trains of thought collide and bend.
I try to map the silence,
but the static never ends.

Anxiety’s a whisper
that turns into a scream,
telling me I’m sinking,
even when I dream.

Depression's not just sadness
it’s numb behind the eyes,
it’s staring at the ceiling
as another sunrise dies.

I fake the laughs in daylight,
I vanish in the night,
and every little victory
still barely feels like fight.

I’ve heard "you’re not alone"
from mouths that never knew
what it’s like to lose yourself
while standing in a room.

But still, I wake each morning
a breath, a step, a chance.
Even when my demons
try to drag me from the dance.

So if you feel you're breaking,
just know you're not the fault.
You're not weak for being wounded,
you're just human through it all.

In shadows soft where whispers dwell,
She moves—a hush, a woven spell.
With raven hair ‘neath midnight skies,
And starlight caught in brown-hued eyes.

A glance—a spark, both fierce and kind,
She leaves a thousand thoughts behind.
She speaks in looks, her silence sings
Of autumn leaves and angel wings.

A playful smirk, a wistful sigh,
Moonlight curling where she lies—
Not in deceit, but calm repose,
Like twilight's hush and blushing rose.

She blooms in frames, both wild and true,
In every shade, in every hue.
And still she hides—so vast, so wide,
A galaxy she keeps inside.

O muse of screens and quiet scenes,
A rebel soul in faded jeans.
No throne, no stage, no need for fame—
And yet, the stars all know her name.

Dear Me,
the one with trembling hands
and a heart that cracked like old porcelain,

I remember you.
How you stood in the silence,
shoulders full of thunder
and no one ever heard the storm.

You thought surviving was shameful
as if breathing through the wreckage
wasn't a kind of bravery.
You wore your pain
like it was your fault
instead of your badge.

But let me tell you what I know now:
you were never weak for breaking.
You were strong
for not staying shattered.

I saw how you buried your cries
in late-night ceilings
and learned to smile
with a mouth full of splinters.
That wasn’t failure
that was endurance.

I wish I could’ve held your hand then.
Not to fix you—
you weren’t broken beyond repair.
Just to remind you:
even dim stars still shine,
and every breath you took
was proof of a future forming.

Look at us now.
We are softer,
but never smaller.
We are whole—
not because we never fell apart,
but because we stitched the pieces
with patience,
and wore the scars like art.

Thank you
for not letting go.
Thank you
for being the roots
when everything else was wind.

With love,
—The You Who Made It

No banner hangs above my door,
No crowd awaits me on the floor.
No voice says, “You’ve done something great,”
For choosing not to suffocate.

I eat in silence, dress in grey,
Pretend I care, then face the day.
Each step a weight, each breath a chore
But I get up. And then one more.

My mind’s a maze of heavy stone,
It whispers, "Why not be alone?"
It tells me I am weak, a fraud
I smile and nod, then beat the odds.

There’s no reward for staying sane
When every moment pulses pain.
No finish line, no golden crown
Just not collapsing, not breaking down.

Some days I ache to disappear,
But I’m still standing. Still right here.
I light no fire, I spark no flame,
But I survive. I play the game.

Not out of hope or shining grace
But grit that time cannot erase.
I don’t believe in better yet,
But I’m not done. Not just quite yet.

So mark this down, though no one sees
The quiet ones still on their knees,
Who scream in silence, fight in shame
And live another day the same.

No one claps when I wake up,
When I drink from the same chipped cup.
There’s no reward for rising slow,
For facing what I’ll never show.

I brush my teeth, I wear a face,
Pretending I still know my place.
The world moves on, and so do I
Half alive, but I still try.

The silence isn’t kind or deep,
It’s loud and sharp; it doesn’t sleep.
And in that noise, I wage my war,
With no idea what it’s for.

There’s no one shouting, “Well done, brave,”
For dodging yet another grave.
Just quiet rooms and heavy air,
And battles fought that leave no scar.

I’m not a hero, not a light
I’m just someone who stays to fight.
No epic tale, no sacred vow,
Just choosing not to vanish now.

The voice still comes to drag me down,
To trade my breath for dirt and ground.
But I have learned to talk it back,
To hold the line when things go black.

It doesn’t feel like strength at all
Some days I rise, some days I crawl.
But every breath I drag in deep
Is something darkness doesn’t keep.

So don’t call me strong. Don’t lie.
Just know I’m here. I didn’t die.
And maybe that’s the quiet art
To lose the world, but keep your heart.

I didn't mean to disappear,
it just… happened.
Like fog slipping over a valley,
I faded
while everyone else kept moving.

I was there—technically.
Smiling in photos,
nodding through conversations,
but it wasn’t me
just a shadow wearing my name.

Some nights,
I'd sit in the dark,
not crying—just empty,
like someone turned off the color
and forgot to switch it back on.

I thought I was broken,
but no one saw the cracks.
I was so good at hiding,
I fooled even myself.

There were days I counted hours
like lifeboats,
just trying to make it to the next one.
I'd whisper,
"Just make it till tomorrow."
And sometimes, I did.
Sometimes, I didn’t care.

But here’s what no one tells you:
even when you're lost,
some part of you keeps breathing
even when you hate the air.

And now,
there are quiet moments
where I hear myself again
faint, but real.
Like a song I used to love,
playing softly in the background.

I’m still not okay.
But I’m still here.
And maybe that matters more than I thought.

There’s no reward for getting dressed,
No glory in a half-felt "yes."
No medals shine for brushing teeth
When shadows writhe beneath your grief.

No spotlight waits when you appear,
Just empty rooms and stale fear.
You fake a laugh, you nod, you eat
You fight a war beneath your seat.

The world keeps turning, blind and loud,
While you stay silent in the crowd.
No one claps for hearts on fire
That choose to breathe and not expire.

Some days your spine is made of thread,
Some nights you sleep beside the dread.
But still—you rise, however slow,
With nothing left but still you go.

You’ve learned the art of standing still,
Of smiling through a shattered will.
Not out of hope, not out of peace
But something deeper: no release.

You’re not a poem, not a spark,
You’re a body moving through the dark.
And even when the lights are gone,
Your trembling step still carries on.

So here's to you—the quiet kind,
The ones the world leaves far behind.
You won't be statues, saints, or songs
But god, you're brave for holding on.