Nothing outside yourself can cause you any trouble.
Here, where the breath begins, waves take root in shadows,
and you, the maker of storms and silence, hold them,
a sculptor in your own tides, bound to no storm but the one you summon.

Step back; let your hands unclench,
let the waves ease, let the current
of your thought roll to a gentle pulse,
a quiet that does not seek, that does not grasp.

See how trouble is born from the grip,
the tightness that weaves into the rhythm
of a restless mind, churning because it thinks it must.
The oceans stir, but not from what lies beyond the shore,
they stir for the self-made winds we unleash,
from restless hands that shape the swell.

Let it be. Let the mind rest like stones on the seabed,
each one layered with peace, each one a depth untouched
by surface winds, the rippling chaos of a world beyond.
In this stillness, nothing is heavy, nothing is lost.

For if you leave your mind as it is,
if you walk from the need to move every current,
you find the water rests in the clarity of itself.
Here is peace, untouched, unshaken, clear as the open sky.

Your trouble, your waves, these were only hands,
stretching to hold a force that was never outside.

Oh, isn't it sad, this tale we weave,
Of a heart so giving, yet too bereaved?
Her laughter, a melody, sweet and pure,
A balm for others, their pain's cure.

Her hands, like lanterns, dispelling the dark,
Her smile igniting the faintest spark.
In every soul, she planted delight,
Yet none looked deeper, beyond the light.

She carried the weight of their secret fears,
Wiping their sorrows, drying their tears.
But oh, the silence when night would fall,
Echoing questions, unanswered call.

Isn't it tragic, the giver's plight?
To brighten the world, yet lose her light?
Her joy, a facade, a painted face,
While her heart longed for its own embrace.

Who stopped to wonder, who dared to see,
The woman behind the mystery?
For giving all, she forgot to keep
The dreams that stirred in her soul's deep.

So here's the lesson, a whisper, a plea:
See the unseen, let hearts roam free.
Ask the question, break the chain,
For the giver too feels joy and pain.

Oh, isn't it sad, and isn't it true?
Her light burned bright, but she needed it too.

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.