It starts like a whisper
threadbare promises,
soft hands hiding clenched fists
beneath the skin, bruises bloom quietly,
seeds of silence sowed in the dark corners of a home.

A smile fractured at the edge,
where love's architecture crumbles,
and the voice that was once free
is twisted into the shape of a question:
Am I not enough?

A door slams, not in anger
but in fear.
The echo swells in the bones,
stays in the walls,
turns a house into a prison
where every footstep is weighed with caution,
a rhythm of dread,
beating louder than the heart.

The world outside spins on,
but inside; there is no time,
no refuge, no escape.
Even sleep is just another war fought alone,
dreams choked by the shadow creeping
over pillowcases and quiet sighs.

And yet,
the grasp tightens with a smile.
It is tender, this violence,
a slow suffocation dressed as affection,
coated in apologies that evaporate
before they touch the air.
It doesn't arrive with storms,
but with lullabies that cut deeper
than screams ever could.

What is love in a house that forgets
the meaning of sanctuary?
Where the windows close
to keep the world out
and the mirrors crack
under the weight of too many lies told in silence?

It hides in plain sight,
in the slow erosion of spirit,
in the small sacrifices of self
until nothing remains but an echo,
a ghost tethered to the earth by fear,
too afraid to walk into the light
and too tired to fight the shadows
that cling like a second skin.

And the world wonders:
Why didn't they leave?
But it's not the leaving
it's the unraveling.
Each thread of identity,
each step towards the door,
pulls against a gravity that speaks
in the quiet voice of terror:
You'll never make it out.
You're already gone.

Still, in the deepest night,
there's a flicker, a spark,
a refusal to be fully extinguished.
The insidious grasp weakens,
as the heartbeat that remains
remembers its strength,
knows that hands meant to hold
do not leave scars.

And someday,
a door will open.
The house will breathe again,
and the quiet will become
a sanctuary once more.

Tears,
they carry weight,
more than saltwater breaking the dam—
they are the liquid syntax of our soul.

Unspoken words
blur the edges of vision,
and we tremble, not from weakness,
but from the quake of something deeper,
a chasm opening wide.

Sadness. Overwhelm. Rage. Joy.
It all pools into one common thread
invisible until it spills
across our cheeks.

Yet, society fears this flood,
as if emotions shouldn't break the surface.
We wear our stoicism like armour,
but real strength is in the unraveling.
In the wet confession
we try to blink away.

To cry is to translate
what words could never say,
to let the body speak
its native tongue,
pure, raw, unrefined.

Don't shut the floodgates.
Tears know the way.
They navigate the jagged landscapes
of grief, of joy, of loss, of rage,
dripping into the open wounds
we pretend are healed.

They tell us what we refuse to hear,
so we bow to them,
not in defeat, but in reverence,
for every tear is an offering
of truth we cannot bear alone.

In life, so much is left behind,
But love's the thread that weaves the soul,
It's not a dream that slips through time,
But the force that keeps us whole.

We let go of hopes that once were bright,
Our visions shift, our passions fade,
Yet love, in all its quiet might,
Is the light that won't degrade.

Through every phase, each passing year,
Some things we outgrow, some we leave,
But love remains, forever near,
The truth we learn to believe.

Love's not a storm that takes its toll,
But the ground beneath our feet,
It holds us close, makes us whole,
And in its care, we find retreat.

It doesn't fit a fleeting mold,
Or lift us far from who we are,
Love, in its tender, gentle hold,
Is the most enduring star.

It's not a fairy tale we chase,
But the strength that helps us rise,
Love meets us in the simple grace,
Of everyday, beneath our skies.

To love is to be open wide,
To all it brings, in every hue,
It's in the way we learn to bide,
And let its healing guide us through.

So do not let your heart give way,
For love is more than just a dream,
It's the path that shows you day by day,
That life is deeper than it seems.

When you place your heart upon the world again,
Do not seek the shadows of what you once knew,
For love that mirrors the past will carry the ache
Of battles lost, of hope that didn't break through.

Instead, search for the love you've never touched,
The kind that meets you where you stand today,
Not bound by echoes of what couldn't last,
But blossoming in this season, soft and brave.

It will come to you in ways unknown before,
Not in the shapes of memories worn and cold,
But in a laugh that lights a different sky,
In hands that hold you like they'll never let go.

And when it calls your name, it will not sound
Like voices of the love you used to know.
It will carve new stories, breathe fresh life
Into the corners of your soul left untouched, aglow.

It will settle deep within your bones, a fire
That's both unsettling and right, its warmth so near,
A love that feels too vast to fit in words,
A quiet strength that silences your fears.

So do not chase the ghosts of what has passed,
Do not seek the comfort of familiar pain.
Let this love be wild, unknown, untamed,
Let it rise to meet you in the sweetest refrain.

For what the past could not sustain, let go,
Your future holds the tender light of trust.
Welcome the love that comes anew,
For it is different, and it is just.

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.

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.

Communication is key,
A phrase like a door, but only half-ajar.
We speak, syllables tumbling like stones,
but do you listen,
or just wait for your turn to reply?

The words I carve from my breath,
sharp-edged and raw,
I offer them to you like a map,
tracing the scars of my mind,
the fractures of my heart.

But if your eyes glaze,
a wall of glass, reflecting only yourself,
then why do I bleed words?
Why do I bother?

It's not the saying, but the hearing,
the seeing beneath the surface,
the understanding stitched between the lines,
that binds us together.

Otherwise, we are just noise
colliding voices in a silent room,
talking to the walls,
while pretending we're understood.

So, if I speak, don't just nod.
Unravel my meaning,
see where I stand in the shadows of these words.
Or else, we're just two monologues,
adrift, never really speaking at all.

In the quiet of twilight, when thoughts softly stray,
I find myself often in a curious delay.
The train of my musings, swift and free,
Embarks on its journey, sometimes without me.

Oh, the moments I ponder, with a wry little smile,
As my mind starts to wander a wandering mile.
Ideas take flight, like birds in the sky,
While I stand at the station, just waving goodbye.

In the landscape of memories, both near and afar,
I chase after thoughts like a falling star.
They shimmer and glisten, then vanish from sight,
Leaving behind an echo of light.

Yet, in these gaps, there's a gentle grace,
A pause in the race, a serene, sacred space.
For wisdom resides in the still, silent air,
And sometimes, just sometimes, I meet myself there.

So let the train travel, let it sail on the breeze,
Through forests of dreams and memory seas.
For in every departure, a new path is found,
And in each quiet moment, life's wonders abound.

In quiet grace, the happy stand,
They do not flaunt with boasting hand.
Their words are few, but pure and bright,
Each spoken thought, a shard of light.

They seek to learn, with open heart,
In every day, they find new art.
Their hands are quick to lift the weak,
In kindness, strength is theirs to speak.

Their laughter rings, unchained and free,
A melody of joy's decree.
To nonsense, they give no mind,
In wisdom's course, they stay aligned.

Their bodies move, with rhythm, strong,
To health and life, they do belong.
No crown they claim, no throne, no right,
For all they earn is born from inner might.

With mindful lips, they shun the sweet,
For balance keeps their spirits fleet.
They sleep in peace, their dreams aglow,
Awake to greet the sun's first show.

In every book, new worlds they find,
And gratitude flows from their mind.
They share their light, they rise with grace,
And greet the day with a smiling face.

Books gather dust in closed rooms,
their spines like stiffened backs,
knowledge locked in pages,
curled tight like fists.

All it takes is the crack of a cover
to spill ink into the air,
to paint the world in colours we've never seen.

Minds, too, fold in on themselves,
like umbrellas in the rain,
useless when clutched shut,
their potential drenched
in ignorance's downpour.

But open and they bloom,
each rib unfurling like a petal,
catching storms, turning deluge into poetry.

There's no shelter in stagnation,
no wisdom in walls.
Books, minds, umbrellas
they were never meant to stay closed.
Only when we risk the rain can we finally see the sun.

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.

When love does falter, and the heart is unsure,
Do not linger in shadows where doubt does endure.
For the soul deserves more than to beg or to plead,
You are a garden, a flame, and a seed.

Walk away, with grace, from the one who can't see,
All the brilliance you hold, all the vastness you'll be.
They are not blind, yet their gaze is too weak,
To fathom the depth, the heights that you seek.

Do not wait for the crumbs of affection to fall,
When your worth is a banquet, and you deserve it all.
Someone will come who drinks from your spring,
Who cherishes the song only you can sing.

So, walk away, for peace comes with release,
You'll find in the distance your heart's quiet peace.
No longer will you wonder why they couldn't stay,
For love, when it's right, never asks you to pray.

And when you meet the one who sees all your light,
You'll look back with a smile, knowing you were right.
To walk from the unsure, to let go of the gray,
To love yourself enough... to simply walk away.

Don’t seek the mirror's fleeting gaze, my friend,
For beauty bends and fades with time's own hand.
The bloom of youth, so fragile and so brief,
Cannot outlast the seasons' endless span.

But oh, your laughter, warm as morning light,
Will age like wine, and with each passing day
It gains a richer hue, a brighter flame,
A gift that even sorrow can't betray.

Your intuition, woven like a cloak,
A tapestry of wisdom, strong and grand,
Will wrap you in its folds, a royal guide,
To steer you through life's ever-shifting sands.

And battles, once too tempting to engage,
You'll leave behind like whispers in the wind.
You'll pick the worthy causes, sharp and clear,
And learn to let the petty wars rescind.

In stillness, like a lotus you will grow,
Each moment blossoms in your mindful grasp.
The present, once elusive, now in reach,
A treasure far too precious to unclasp.

Your heart will learn what time alone can teach,
What's worth your care, what's worthy of your soul.
Like ivy creeping up a castle's wall,
Your sense of worth will flourish and take hold.

So chase not beauty's ghost, my dearest friend,
It shifts and fades like shadows on the shore.
Instead, let all your essence shine and sing,
The traits that make you 'you' forevermore.

For in the end, what truly draws us near,
Is not the face, but hearts that hold us dear.

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's the fire no ocean could quell,
a heat beneath skin, searing
through every pulse, an electric hum
of being alive in the presence of another.

Love is an uncharted storm
raging quietly in the veins;
no hands can grasp it,
no mind contain it,
it slips, shifts, floods every silence
with the whisper of its impossible need.

And yet, it's delicate, too;
the breath that catches
between words,
the glance that folds
time upon itself.
It's in the empty space
between bodies
where all things combust
and surrender.

It breaks you open,
but it's the breaking
that keeps you whole.
It's the longing that lives
inside you forever,
a flame that neither ends
nor begins;
just burns. And burns.
Because love is always too much,
but never enough.

Strip the room bare, piece by piece,
watch the air expand into spaces once filled,
a vase, a chair, the clock that hummed silently,
gone. Now the walls throb with absence.

We've been taught to mourn the missing,
but the empty frame sharpens the portrait,
its lines more fierce, its colours more certain.

What remains throbs, louder now,
the weight of each remaining thing grows.
A book, once ignored, beckons.
Chairs seem taller, proud in their vacancy.

Holding the shape of those who sat
but are no longer sitting. The chessboard's grid,
no longer a decoration, asks for fingers,
begs for strategy, begs to matter.

Loss pulls at us, but what if it also clarifies?
We are creatures who forget to notice,
until the ground shifts and we see
not the void, but the survivors.

The gaps sing with an intensity,
that can only exist in the space of subtraction.
The fewer the notes, the more the music hums,
in the tight, trembling air.

In the emptiness, what remains isn't just what is left
it is louder, sharper, significant in ways
we were too crowded to feel before.
In loss, we gain a new vision, where what stays
demands our gaze and commands a deeper gravity.

What we lose in breadth, we gain in depth.
The light that falls on what is left
glows with the weight of what has gone.

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.

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.

If you don't feel the joy when they rise
When your friend's success shines bright in the skies,
Then what bond do you hold, what claim do you share,
If your heart is unmoved by the heights they dare?

For friendship is woven from threads pure and deep,
It sings with their laughter, it cries when they weep.
It's not just a name, not a casual thread,
But a tapestry woven with words left unsaid.

When their light starts to shine, like the dawn on the sea,
Your heart should ignite, just as wild, just as free.
For true friends are mirrors of joy and of grace,
Reflecting each triumph, each challenge they face.

It's not about envy, nor wishing for more,
But standing beside them as their spirit soars.
In their joy, you find yours, in their glow, you are bright,
For their victories lift you like stars in the night.

If you don't feel the thrill when they take to the air,
If you can't feel their joy, like the wind in your hair,
Then what is the meaning of the bond you defend,
If you don't get excited, then you're not a friend.

For friendship is sacred, a fire that is shared,
It's the light in their eyes when you show that you care.
So, lift them, adore them, let your spirit entwine,
In their success, find joy that's as fierce as it's fine.

Be their pillar, their cheer, with love on display,
For a friend, true in heart, will forever stay.

Upon my shelf, where dreams reside,
A console waits, my joy, my pride.
In quiet glow, it hums my name,
A portal vast, through worlds untamed.

In pixel light, I take my stand,
With Xbox controller in my hand.
Each button pressed, a silent vow,
To chase the stars, to seize the now.

Through realms unknown, through skies of fire,
It fuels my heart, ignites desire.
From battles won to quests begun,
It holds the moon, eclipses the sun.

Oh, Xbox, where my spirit may fly,
A place where endless wonders lie.
My love for thee, forever grows,
In every game, my heart bestows.


Version 2

Oh, Xbox, vessel of digital dreams,
In your embrace, time softly redeems.
With buttons that hum and triggers that sing,
You transport me to realms where heroes take wing.

In twilight hours, your glow fills the room,
Banishing shadows, dispelling the gloom.
Your worlds, so vast, stretch far beyond sight,
Where battles are waged 'neath stars burning bright.

Through dungeons, through forests, through skies ever high,
You lift me beyond where the mundane can fly.
From the thrill of a race to the clash of a fight,
You hold all my passions in pixels of light.

No mere machine, you're a key to a gate,
Unlocking adventures, defying my fate.
A bond that is cherished, so constant, so true,
My love for the Xbox will forever renew.

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.

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.

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.

The truth, a mirror so clear and deep,
Where shadows hide, where secrets sleep.
It calls to us, like winds through trees,
Whispering softly, "Come, be free."

But freedom, friend, is never light,
It asks for courage, asks for sight.
For in this glass, what do we see?
Our flaws, our fears, our frailty.

Yet truth is kind, though hard to hold,
A fire that cleanses, bright and bold.
It strips away the masks we wear,
Reveals the soul, both pure and bare.

To grow, we must not turn and flee,
From all we are, from all we see.
For growth is born from truth embraced,
Not from the lies we chase in haste.

The heart expands when it can face,
Its own mistakes, its own disgrace.
And in that knowing, there's a grace,
That leads us to a higher place.

For strength is found not in denial,
But in the honesty of the trial.
The more we accept, the more we learn,
Through pain, through joy, through fires we burn.

And those who grow are those who stay,
Who do not flinch or run away.
For they have learned that to be whole,
Requires a reckoning with the soul.

So stand before that mirrored truth,
Embrace your age, embrace your youth.
For only then can you ascend,
And find the strength to rise, to mend.

The deeper you look, the more you'll find,
The growth of heart, the growth of mind.
In truth, there lies the power to be,
Unbroken, boundless, and truly free.

Letting go is the hardest dance,
A battle fought between heart and chance.
The mind, so eager to step ahead,
But the heart lingers where it's been fed.

For memories are stitched like thread,
Woven deep in all that's said,
In favourite songs, or simple sights,
A brand of pasta, soft lamplights.

The world spins on, but you remain,
Caught in love's sweet, aching chain.
And though you try to walk away,
Your heart insists it still must stay.

It's not weakness this lingering ache,
Nor is it wrong, this path you take.
For healing comes in waves, not lines,
A rhythm not bound by clocks or signs.

There will be days of peace, so rare,
And others when the weight's still there.
But this is life, a tender maze,
Of broken hearts and mending days.

Be kind to you, in this in-between,
Where loss and hope both intervene.
For though they're gone, and life is changed,
The love you had is still unchained.

And on those days when tears do fall,
Remember this, above it all.
When life withholds what once felt true,
It's shaping something fresh for you.

So trust the time, the path unseen,
And know you'll heal, though stuck between.

A heartbeat in the distance,
once a symphony,
now fractured notes dissolving in air.
Fingers once laced,
like threads weaving worlds,
are loose, and the wind,
whispers goodbye between the gaps.

You were the sun at midnight,
the impossible touch of light,
in places I didn't know could bloom,
but time turned you into a shadow,
fading slow,
leaving nothing but echoes of your warmth.

The road we carved,
marked by laughter and silent promises,
cracks and crumbles beneath the weight of absence.
Each step forward drags the ghost of your smile,
a tether to something no longer there,
but not yet gone.

I hold you,
not in flesh,
but in memory's restless dream,
where your voice still lingers,
on the edge of a word,
that never fully lands.

How can love be lost?
It sits in the marrow,
a fire never truly extinguished,
just misplaced in the night.
Yet the heart learns its new rhythm,
the silence becomes a new kind of music,
and love lost, but not forgotten,
rests somewhere deep,
beneath the skin of the stars.

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.

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.

Each day is a canvas, a story untold,
Where moments of wonder in silence unfold.
One day, a café where whispers are heard,
Sipping on dreams, not saying a word.

The next, a long walk beneath skies of blue,
Breathing in life as the earth welcomes you.
Friends fill the air with their laughter and grace,
While novels call softly to a quietened space.

One day, you conquer, with focus and might,
The next, break the rules, let indulgence take flight.
Junk food and laughter, with no guilt to hide,
For life is a journey, enjoy every ride.

A day with your family, where love is the feast,
Sharing your stories, where joy is increased.
Then retreat to your boards, where dreams take their form,
Imaginary worlds where creativity’s warm.

For as long as the sun in the heavens shall rise,
Let each morning greet you with endless surprise.
Put on your best, feel the world in your sway,
And make every moment your favourite day.

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.

In twilight's gentle, hushed embrace, I muse,
Upon a truth, profound, yet oft confused,
"When you change the way you look at things,"
A whisper in the breeze, a truth that sings.

In quiet moments, by the fire's warm glow,
I ponder on this wisdom, let it grow,
For as I turn my gaze to yonder skies,
The very stars seem different in my eyes.

Once, they were distant, cold, and far apart,
But now, they're dreams, each one a work of art,
In shifting thoughts, a new perspective is born,
The heavens, once remote, now feel adorned.

When change befalls the lens through which we see,
The world transforms, a wondrous tapestry,
No longer mere, mundane, or commonplace,
But filled with grace, a dance of time and space.

The meadows bloom with colours yet unseen,
Each blade of grass, a world, a living dream,
The river's flow, a symphony of grace,
In every ripple, secrets interlace.

"When you change the way you look at things,"
A truth profound, in whispered wisdom, sings,
For in the alchemy of mind and sight,
The ordinary turns to pure delight.

So, let us not be prisoners of the past,
But with new eyes, this world anew we'll cast,
And as we do, the universe may range,
To show us beauty, in the subtle change.

Your mind, a canvas vast and wide,
Paints the world with thoughts inside.
It searches far, it seeks the clues,
To prove the stories that you choose.

If shadows speak, "No light for me,"
Your mind will find the dark to see,
And every cloud, and every storm,
Will only serve to reinforce this norm.

But whisper soft, "Hope finds a way,"
And watch how dawn transforms the day.
Your mind, like soil, will nurture seeds,
Of brighter thoughts, of kinder deeds.

For in the garden of the soul,
What you believe will shape the whole.
So plant with care, and tend with grace,
The thoughts that bloom will fill your space.

The power's yours, with each new breath,
To choose belief, to conquer death.
Of dreams once lost, or hopes turned gray,
For your own thoughts will light the way.

So speak with wisdom, mind your voice,
For what you tell it shapes your choice.
In every word, in every line,
The proof you seek is yours to find.

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 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.

In the quiet chambers of the heart,
Where love once bloomed, you find your part,
A tender place where memories sing,
Of someone who was everything.

But trying to forget, to erase, to sever,
Is not the task, nor now, nor ever.
For in the marrow of what was shared,
Is a beauty that lingers, a love once declared.

You don’t sanitize the wounds of time,
Or clip the edges of the climb.
No, you cradle the ache, the jagged thorn,
For in its presence, you were reborn.

Let the pain rest where it may,
It teaches in a quiet way.
The love that once felt like the air,
Is not erased, though you may no longer share.

Sometimes life moves with a heavier hand,
And you must lay down what you planned.
You walk away, not in defeat,
But knowing some roads will never meet.

The heart grows too big, desires too far,
And you must follow your own star.
It’s okay to leave, to let go, to release,
For in that, too, there’s quiet peace.

Though you thought forever was in the weave,
There’s grace in knowing when to leave.
To accept, to walk, to quietly part,
Is to honor the depth of your own heart.

The stone in the road, sharp-edged, scraping the soles,
is it burden, or a shift in the wind?
A scream might rise, teeth bared against fate,
but listen closely, in its echo is the sound of wings.

The earth turns slow,
gravel underfoot bruises the skin,
but that sting, that ache,
is the pulse of the universe saying, Move.

The fall is not the breaking;
it is the breath that finds your lungs anew,
as you turn and twist into directions
you had never dreamed,
the unseen galaxies in your bones waking up.

The obstacle is the heartbeat of change,
a violent push, a whisper in disguise,
hurling you to a horizon you hadn’t thought to reach.
What you thought was in the way was only clearing it.

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.

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.

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.