It's okay if your skin feels electric,
if the walls shift like fractured mirrors,
and you stumble in the dark spaces of yourself.

It's okay if fear snarls at your feet,
if your heart drums too loud for quiet,
and the weight of everything presses
so hard you forget how to stand.

Let the storm rip through you.
Let it howl your doubts into the night.
These wounds are not final,
they are only birthmarks of a greater becoming.

It's okay.
Let the world bruise you.
Let the ache of it teach you
how to be soft where you've always been steel,
how to break where you've only been solid stone.

Feel the quake in your chest,
the shiver in your bones.
You are not fragile.
You are fire learning its own heat.

And when the darkness shifts
and you are left with your breath,
with the quiet after the storm,
you'll find,
you have always been more
than the breaking,
more than the fall.

It's okay.
The ground beneath you trembles
because you are rising.

Play, like breath igniting life,
wild animal in the ribcage,
a flame caught in the pull of night's dark thread
it whispers the ancient hum,
not the hush of apology but the loud echo of galaxies.

Skin, soft as dust against stars,
glows in the ecstatic tension,
stretching out in the reckless curves of time.

We fall into it, unlearn gravity,
become architects of chaos, of sweat and laughter,
our bodies - maps with no borders.

Play, because touch is language,
a conversation of pulse and instinct,
where rules shatter beneath a storm of hands
and the air forgets the burden of propriety.

It is a dance of forgetting ourselves
and becoming animals, children, gods,
twisting in a place where no wrong exists,
just the physics of limbs, the art of madness,
and the permission to be undone.

*** is Play.

A game where the end doesn't matter,
only the fire of the moment,
the breaking of worlds in a glance,
a kiss that isn't an apology.

Here, we are infinite in the ache,
and we laugh, in the way only lovers do,
as we fall again,
naked in the chaos of everything.

I hope you have the courage to begin anew,
To gather the fragments of heartache and hue,
And spin them into gold beneath your hands,
To create beauty from what life demands.

May you release the chains of what once was,
And find the present worthy just because.
With lessons etched deep into your soul,
May you surrender and trust in becoming whole.

I hope you dare to trust again, to feel,
To open wide, to let the wounds heal.
Overflowing with love, pure and bright,
May you find strength in every fight.

Let the past not hold your dreams in chains,
Nor the echo of doubt leave stubborn stains.
But choose to rise, to grow, to be,
Embracing all that life could see.

I hope you have the courage to take the leap,
To chase desires buried deep.
To believe in yourself, without delay,
And live in the fullness of today.

For endings are just chapters turned,
Where new beginnings are patiently earned.
Each door that closes leaves behind,
A key to strength, to a resilient mind.

Prioritise yourself in this world of haste,
Don't wait for saviors, don't let life waste.
For the hero you seek is within your core,
I hope you have the courage to ask for more.

And in trying, in falling, in rising once more,
May you find the courage to always explore.
For each step forward, each risk you take,
Is how the most beautiful beginnings awake.

I hope you find people in this life who make you feel like you are meant to be here...

Like roots tangled beneath concrete cities,
like hands that hold without words,
there are moments when the world splits open,
and you glimpse the sanctuary hidden in the chaos.

It's in the tilt of a smile,
in the pulse of laughter
that echoes in your bones
and says, "You were always meant to stay."

These are the people who carry your name
like a mantra on their tongues,
their presence a quiet rebellion
against the loneliness that creeps like fog.

They are the ones who make the sky more breathable,
who stitch together your ragged edges with nothing more
than a glance, a word, a touch of unspoken truth.

You belong here,
not because you bent yourself to fit their corners,
but because you filled the space only you could fill,
a constellation all your own,
and they saw it in you
long before you saw it in yourself.

I also hope you find this in yourself too...

There will be days when you look in the mirror
and all you see are fractures
shards of who you thought you should be,
the jagged pieces of an endless "almost."

But let me tell you:
even in the wreckage, you are whole.
Even in the broken light,
you are the brightest thing
the universe has ever known.

You don't need their validation to bloom,
but oh, how beautiful it is
when you find those who water your roots,
who whisper, "Stay,"
who remind you that the soil was always enough.

You are enough.
You belong,
exactly as you are.

A pulse beneath skin-raw,
a symphony of friction,
silent notes igniting,
unwritten, but felt.
Fingers trace electric rivers,
veins pulsing to the rhythm of need.

Sweat slicks the edges of memory,
lips unlearn what's been spoken,
our bodies becomes language,
where words are too clumsy to reach.

In the space between breath and release,
something breaks, something blooms,
old wounds, wounds no one touched,
heal in the friction.
Not the kind of healing you can bottle
or bless with holy water
this, the alchemy of skin and surrender,
the way hips speak in tongues
when the body writes its own scripture.

Here, love is less tender,
more molten,
shattering the cold stars
that once burned inside your bones.
This is a healing that doesn't ask permission
it claims, it devours, it demands
the undoing of all shame.

Feel it.
The rhythm is louder than your heartbeat now.

The mirror splits,
shattering the myth of who you think you are,
shards of self-reflection scattered across the floor.
Each sliver, a truth, biting and blood-stained,
but you stand there, fists unclenched,
eyes wide open.

Growth comes crawling on jagged knees,
this is not a clean ascent,
no golden stairs to carry you up.
It's a wrestle with ghosts,
the ones you've buried with heavy hands,
with silence, with denial.

You cannot flee this reckoning,
the walls close in like truth's rib cage,
breathing you in.
But to run is to shrink,
to fold yourself back into the cocoon of lies
that feels like safety,
but is nothing more than a beautiful cage.

What you accept,
what you let press its weight against your bones,
it cracks you open,
stretching your spine towards a brutal freedom.

The light gets sharper the deeper you go,
splitting skin, unraveling narratives.
You grow only as far as you dare to fall,
not down, but inward.

There is a voice that doesn't use words. Listen.
It whispers in the rustle of leaves,
In the pause between a heartbeat,
In the quiet hum of dawn before the world awakens.

It's a song that stirs the soul,
Soft as the breath of a sleeping child,
Yet vast as the ocean's endless call.

This voice is ancient, older than time,
Born from the stars and the dust of the earth.
It carries the wisdom of ages untold,
A knowing beyond the clamour of thought.

A truth that lives beneath the surface,
Of all that we see, and all we pretend to know.
It speaks in the dance of the wind,
In the stillness of twilight.

When the day sighs into night,
And shadows stretch long across the land.
It is in the eyes of the old and the innocent,
In the spaces between the lines of a love letter,
Or the quiet ache of a heart mending slowly.

This voice cannot be grasped,
It cannot be chased or claimed.
It comes when the mind is silent,
When the heart surrenders its restlessness.

It rises in the moments when you are,
No longer seeking, but simply being.
When the soul listens with more than ears,
For there are languages older than words.

Songs written in the pulse of life itself,
And if you listen, truly listen;
You will hear it: the voice of the universe,
Calling you home.
To a place where words fall away,
And all that remains is knowing.