You are meant to stride through sunlit streets,
glimmering with the confidence of gods,
and then, in the moon's pull,
be hollowed out by questions older than the stars.

You are meant to live years that pour like water,
slipping unnoticed through your fingers,
while a single afternoon clutches you tight,
unwilling to release its grip.

There are supposed to be voices that cut through your certainty,
teeth in their syllables,
while others hold you like a whisper,
soft enough to heal the fractures.

You are meant to fail, to fall, to splinter.
Not broken,
but scattered like seeds,
aching to bloom in the chaos of the dirt.

The horizon is not always a promise,
sometimes it's a reminder
that wandering is necessary,
and that the map was never yours to hold.

You were never meant to have all the answers.
You are allowed to be incomplete,
to be a question mark in a world obsessed with exclamation points.

Nothing is wrong with you.
You are just becoming more - 'YOU'.

Let it pulse like thunder in the hollow
of your chest,
let it tear at the seams
of certainty, let it live.

Stop the fists clenched, the hard-won wishes
shoved against the walls of fate.
Let go
the trembling grip on that which slips
through your fingers like sand, like smoke,
like the memory of a forgotten dream.

The world, vast and reckless, asks only
that you breathe it in,
not wrangle it into submission.

Feel it.
How everything meant for you
whispers on a current unseen,
how it weaves
like shadow and light through the very marrow
of your bones, calling you by name,
soft as a promise,
certain as blood.

So let it flow, let it go, this war,
this force,
this heavy ache of trying to shape
the ocean into your palms,
let it all fall
like rain to the earth.

Trust.
Trust that all that belongs
will come like wild birds returning,
like rivers finding the sea,
effortless, fated, bold.

And so you breathe.
You breathe in life, vast, unknowable,
more wild and free than desire.

You let it move, unchained.

And in that breath, in that letting go,
you become,
everything you were ever meant to be.

In shadowed alleys where secrets dwell,
A city's pulse, its mournful knell,
The Penguin rises, cloaked in night,
A figure cast in shadows' light.

Born of Gotham's grit and grime,
A creature formed by crime's hard line,
His heart, a fortress, chilled and stark,
His path is paved through midnight's dark.

With clever mind and ruthless hand,
He carves his name upon the land,
A broken soul with sharp, keen edge,
Against the world, he makes his pledge.

For power's flame, he burns his past,
A king of ashes, first and last.
Where empires crumble, he will rise,
A cunning crow, with vulture's eyes.

Through schemes and whispers, deals and deeds,
He dances where ambition leads,
A tragedy, yet bold and strong,
In shadowed halls where he belongs.

So, watch him tread this twisted path,
Through webs of spite and Gotham's wrath.
The Penguin - not pure, nor free,
Yet bound to fate eternally.

In shadows deep, his story lies,
A legend birthed beneath gray skies.

Oh, take me back to the velvet night,
Where peace was woven pure and tight.
Those hours held in simple grace,
With no regrets, no need to chase.

Before the tangled webs of thought,
When dreams were simple, unbesought,
And pillows held no secret cries,
Only the softest lullabies.

Take me back to tender years,
Before the haunt of hidden fears,
When stars above would kindly glow,
And let the restless mind let go.

Where every worry fled the scene,
And slumber rose, soft and serene.
I miss the hush, the childlike ease,
A silent drift upon night's breeze.

Now, thoughts unfold in endless scroll,
Whispers deep within the soul.
The mind, a maze, no rest in sight,
Bound tight, unraveling each night.

Take me back to softer lands,
Where calm would hold me by the hand,
And sleep was peace, and dreams were free,
Oh, take me back, take back that me.

Yoga, ancient, sacred, a dance of grace,
A practice woven through time, in every place.
With breaths that rise and fall like the sea,
It roots the soul and sets it free.

Why do I practice? Oh, let me tell,
Of a world within, where stillness dwells.
In the silence of breath, soft as night’s caress,
Yoga draws me near, and I'm one with less,
Less of the worries that cloud my sight,
Less of the burdens that weigh and fight.

In gentle poses, in stilled embrace,
I find the shape of inner space.
In meditative flow, the outer fades,
I drift from the noise and the world’s charades.
Through asanas that open, twist, and bend,
I meet the self, as my truest friend.

Each stretch, a prayer, each pose, a shrine,
To the sacred body and the mind’s design.
And in those moments of pure release,
I uncover my heart, I uncover peace.
Gone are the walls, the restless pace,
I find a sanctuary in time and space.

The sun salutes, the moon bows low,
In this ancient ritual’s steady flow,
I discover wisdom, quiet, deep,
In Yoga’s heart, where secrets sleep.

Why do I practice? To simply be,
To touch the threads of eternity.
It’s more than motion, more than breath,
It’s life within life, and in life, death.

The shedding of layers, to see and to know,
The self beyond what outwardly shows.
I practice Yoga to dance with soul,
To remember myself as whole.

I am the wild arc of the earth's pulse,
untamed breath in the chest of everything,
ancient as stones, fierce as waves in rebellion.
I do not shrink or twist myself thin
for the comfort of lesser horizons,
I am boundless, unruly, rising.

Do not ask the ocean why it carves into cliffs,
or question the mountains as they lean into the sky.
They have earned their expanse,
with rocks and waters kissed by creation,
sighing in silent defiance.
I too am carved from something vast and voracious,
not meant to bow, not made to dissolve.

I shall not bargain for a lesser version of me,
a quieter current, a shadowed peak.
I am that blue abyss, fathoms deep,
where light and darkness make their truce.
I am that towering stone,
etched by storms that refused to relent.

My roots dig deep into the marrow of the earth,
my voice rises like thunder breaking in the hollowed sky.
To be boundless is my right,
to take up my space is my heritage,
to walk unburdened, unapologetic,
a force unmoved by soft-spoken disapproval.

So I declare, with spine straight as mountaintops,
with heart rolling in tides beyond tides:
I am here, irreducible and vast,
and I will not ask permission to exist,
to expand, to stretch, to surge.

In the quiet heart of Autumn, where amber leaves descend,
There lies a lesson in each golden branch that bends.
These trees, in graceful ease, surrender to the air,
Their leafy hands unfurl, releasing every care.

Each leaf once green with spring's eager, pulsing light,
Turned to gold and crimson in Autumn's softer sight.
No longer bound by summer's heat or spring's early grace,
They drift to earth with beauty, accepting time and space.

And if these trees, so rooted, so steadfast, so bold,
Can trust the fading sun and brave the coming cold,
Perhaps, like them, I too might loosen what I hold,
Let go of what was mine, of all that's grown too old.

For in the letting go, I find a tender peace,
A whispered promise, sweet, of freedom in release.
What once I clung to fiercely, now softens in the breeze,
Transforming loss to wisdom, as memory leaves with ease.

The tree does not grieve its branches bare and stark;
It stands in calm surrender as night drapes close and dark.
Its strength is not in clinging, but in the grace to bend,
To shed its worn-out stories, and trust the silent end.

So, as the Autumn teaches with patience, kind and wise,
I watch my past drift gently, like leaves beneath gray skies.
In this quiet bravery, I find a path to free
The weight I once embraced, what used to be just me.

And with each leaf I loosen, with every breath released,
I plant new roots of courage, my spirit's song increased.
For as the trees let go and rest in winter's sleep,
So too, I trust the cycles, in letting go, I keep.