In the tender embrace of a serene, ancient wood,
Two trees once soared, side by side they stood.
Roots entwined in the soil’s tender clasp,
Branches woven in a timeless grasp.

One tree, robust, with emerald might,
Its leaves a dance in the sun’s soft light.
But the other—oh, the other!—fades,
A slow decay in nature’s cruel parade.

Its bark now brittle, cracked like bone,
Once vibrant leaves to the earth are thrown,
Curling brown, a whispered plea,
As it withers, longing to be free.

Yet still the healthy tree leans near,
Its emerald boughs full of silent fear,
Reaching toward its dying kin,
As if love alone could pull it in.

The forest watches, breath held tight,
In twilight’s pale and ghostly light.
And still, the living one won’t release
Its fading lover from this endless peace.

For how can life persist, alone,
When heart and root together have grown?
In shared breaths of wind, in rain’s soft kiss—
How can one survive without the other’s bliss?

So they stand there, a tragic pair,
One green, one ghostly, beyond repair.
Yet the living tree refuses to sway,
As if to say: "I’ll hold you till I too decay"

Time grabs you by the throat,
but its grip is painless.
It holds you there,
soft, silent, and unyielding,
as if to say: “I won’t hurt you,
but I’ll still take everything.”

It is a very, very lovely meal,
sweet as manna from heaven,
a blessing to taste.
But the aftertaste?
It’s bitterness that lingers,
a slow poison you can never spit out.

Why do I care about time?
Because I long for the future,
a place where dreams might still be alive,
and yet I can’t stop watching
as the kindest ones slip from my grasp,
fade away from my ever-so-tight grip,
disappearing like sand
through fingers clenched too hard.

I know I will die one day,
and that is a blessing in itself.
Who would want to stay in this place forever,
this paradise for the worst of humanity?
Who would want to live among them
for an eternity,
watching goodness bleed out,
watching cruelty grow bold?

Still, I wonder—
if I met time,
if we could talk over tea,
I’d ask:

Why forward, not back?
Do you regret what you’ve done?
Do you remember the lives you’ve touched,
or do you move too quickly to care?
Do you see yourself as cruel,
or are you simply tired,
a worker with no rest?
Are you a blessing or a curse,
or is that decision left to us?

And in that moment,
perhaps I’d realize the truth.

Time didn’t steal.
Time didn’t break.
Time didn’t devour.
It only moved.

It was never time that was the problem.
It was us.
We wasted it.
We clung too tightly,
or not tightly enough.
We blamed it for what we didn’t do.
We made it a beast
because we were too afraid
to admit we were the monsters all along.

Imagine humanity,
if it were a singular conscious being
not a collection of voices,
but one voice,
shouting and pleading and whispering all at once.
Would it mourn what it has done?
Would it take responsibility,
or would it look to the heavens,
to the universe,
and ask: “Why?”

Time watches us and laughs—
not cruelly, but knowingly,
as if to say:
“I never held the knife.
You stabbed yourselves.”

Time is an arrow,
yes, but it isn’t aimed at us.
It simply flies.
It simply is.

The problem has always been
our trembling hands,
our misplaced blame,
our fear of what we cannot stop
but still refuse to hold.

Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die.
No,
Not a gentle passing,
Not a quiet fade.
I will **** them,
Lay them to rest beneath the weight of who I must become.

But who am I, really?
A pale imitation,
A shadow too scared to meet the light.

I count my failures like rosary beads,
Each one a prayer to the hollow god of “not enough.”

The mirror lies.
It shows the surface:
Eyes half-closed—
From exhaustion?
From fear?
Or to hide the split-second shame
That flickers behind them.

A thought, raw and bare,
That what I’ve done,
What I’ve built,
Will never be enough.

I despise my own reflection—
The way it clings to mediocrity,
The way it swallows excuses
And spits them back as reasons.

Yet here I am.
Climbing a wall with no summit,
Straining toward a light
I’m not sure exists.

But still I climb,
For fear of falling
Is greater than the hunger for rest.

And in the echoes of these empty days,
I wonder:
If the old ways must die,
Will I mourn them?

Or will I simply replace them
With a newer, sharper hatred,
Polished and waiting,
For the next time I need someone to blame?

At seventeen, I walk this line,  
Between what's lost and what's mine.  
MATURE in ways they cannot see,  
While others dance in youthful glee.

I hide my gifts, I shrink from light,  
For fear they’ll claim what isn’t right.  
They flaunt their pride, so loud, so sure,  
Yet their certainties feel so impure.

I loathe the arrogance they wear,  
Yet hate myself for how I care.  
For in my heart, I see the truth,  
That self-awareness often wastes in youth.

I exist for no one else but me,  
My deeds unseen, a quiet plea.  
Misunderstood, they call me bold,  
But selfish? No, that’s not my mold.

I’ve wasted time, I’ve tried to please,  
To fit a mold that wasn’t me.  
But now I see it’s all in vain,  
A cycle of self-inflicted pain.

Some call me friend, but I can see,  
They’re only close when it suits their need.  
Their empty words and careless ways,  
They leave me hollow, lost in a haze.

They act as if they care so much,  
But their warmth is cold, a shallow touch.  
I laugh and smile, but it feels off,  
Like I’m just playing some tiring scoff.

I've seen a few, wise and kind,  
But they’re too far for me to find.  
Their presence feels a distant star,  
Too far to reach, too bright, too far.

end,,,,,,

Winds carry whispers from afar
The moon drifts softly in its aura
Stars fall quietly where shadows lay
Memories linger, refusing to decay
Time slips past in the light of aurora
But still, your name remains unspoken.

Whenever she opens her eyes, she writes poetry,
And with every breath, she pens dreams effortlessly.

Whenever she talks, the universe leans in to hear,
Whenever she thinks, she paints skies crystal clear.

Whenever she's near, my soul finds its beat,
Yet somehow, we're strangers, destined never to meet.