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.

Inside us,
beneath the skin and the noise,
there's a child, eyes wide and open,
heart like fragile ink, waiting.

A child who needs no grand gesture,
no castles of promise or kingdoms of light,
just a sliver of softness, a single thread
to pull them into knowing
they belong.

They dwell in hidden pages,
the ones we often turn past too quickly,
marked by forgotten sighs,
footnotes of wonder, edged in longing.

They don't ask for much, really,
just a place in the margins,
a place in the prose where silence listens
and understanding holds them close.

Each of us,
a story unwinding,
scrawled on the chapters of bone and breath,
our pages turning, child, dreamer, seeker,
hoping someone will see
the ink stains beneath
and understand.

Oh, Halloween, night cloaked in wonder's veil,
Where shadows dance and phantoms sail.
A time when moonlight whispers in the trees,
And secrets stir on an autumn breeze.

The air grows crisp, a shiver deep,
Waking magic from its year-long sleep.
Leaves blaze in amber, red, and gold,
As stories of ages past unfold.

Children laugh with painted faces bright,
In costumes sewn by candlelight.
They roam through realms of make-believe,
Where mysteries linger and ghosts deceive.

Lanterns glow, carved with care,
Casting grins that leer and stare.
Pumpkins guard each path and door,
Their flickering flames the ancient lore.

Witches cackle in the dark,
A cat's eyes gleam with fiery spark.
Skeletons rattle, spirits rise,
Underneath October skies.

For on this night, all souls align,
The living and lost, the earthly, divine.
A hallowed hour where worlds embrace,
Flesh and phantom, face to face.

So come, be merry, join the spell,
In Halloween's sacred, shadowed swell.
For this one night, let fears take flight,
And revel in the haunting light.

It starts small,
a whisper, a flicker, a timid flame
in the middle of a vast, cold expanse.
You crave heat, but the fire takes its time,
growing only in the pauses, in the inches,
in the moments you almost gave up.

Progress is no storm
it's a soft drizzle on a thirsty earth,
seeping in quiet, unnoticed, until one day,
the roots push deeper, the stems grow taller.

You're tempted to curse the slowness,
the aching drag of it.
But to quit would be to stop the sun from rising,
to smother the flame with your own hand.

The world says "rush" while the earth whispers "wait."
And here you stand,
in the stillness, in the in-between,
learning the sacred art of slow.

Your heart is both warrior and sage,
carving a path where no path was,
each step a triumph, even when it feels like nothing.

You have already begun.
These small beginnings,
they are the birthplace of your mountains,
the cradle of your storms.

Do not despise the tender shoots that have yet to bloom,
for they will become forests if you let them.

Quitting would only steal the story
you were meant to tell,
a story written not in leaps,
but in a thousand quiet breaths of progress.

So hold fast.
This is your time,
your fire is growing.

Believe in the slow,
in the unseen,
in the yet-to-be.
You got this.

A smile sharper than glass,
glimmering with shards of light that cuts,
the kind that beckons you close, only to let you bleed
in the name of love.

Words like mirrors,
reflecting back nothing but distortion,
twisting your truth into knots,
until you question if you ever knew how to untangle
your own soul from their gaze.

They drink your kindness
like a thief,
quenching their thirst with the salt of your wounds,
leaving you hollow,
a vessel emptied of worth.

Their praise is a dagger dressed as a gift,
the hand that caresses your cheek
is the same that lets go,
watching you fall with a silent, satisfied smirk,
like a puppet whose strings were always theirs to hold.

Yet it's never their fault, is it?
A perfect storm of self-made delusion,
swirling in a vortex of "me, me, me."
You're collateral,
a casualty in the war they wage against anything
that threatens to expose the hollow beneath their skin.

Narcissistic behaviour,
a dance of shadow and flame,
leaves only the ashes of trust
for you to sweep away.