The same eyes that cry for you,

They lie to you. 💔

Fighting Spirit

To fight—
You need balance.
To balance—
You require
a platform
to stand upon.

Pull out the floor beneath you,
You have nothing
when you're pushed down—
unable to get up,
Turning the ground beneath
Into seeping sand,
that keeps you on your knees
With nothing to stand on.

My fighting spirit
has vanished.
No longer
Can I pull the wool over my eyes,
pretend I have ground beneath me,
make the wind my friend,
pretend I can fly.

This foundation
that once held me up—
came from voices
that made me feel protected,
hands that held,
ones that made me feel included.
They were meant for me—
and only me.

Quietly,
the wind turned cold.
Hands turned pale,
afraid to touch.
Scared to let the bones bind
and the voices ring.

All that can be done now
Is finding new souls
That can push me
to build something
Thats built for growth
Shaped to show—
How far ive come.
Helping me evolve,
With every brick
That goes into place.

Maybe teach people who surround me
What it means to—
Fall and rise agian

Forge something impenetrable
Never lose that fire inside of you
To keep living
Keep failing,
But still be able to get up
Not a dent in your armor,
Proving you dont give up.

Restore a foundation thats a mine,
Brick by brick,
Making back what you lost,
Assemble what I lost
Only this time
Something only I can unravel.

Let’s not sleep—
let’s overthink!
Let’s rethink
every awkward blink.

Let’s write a novel
in our head,
then cry about
what we should’ve said.

Sleep is boring.
Peace is fake.
Let’s spiral till
the morning breaks.

Blank Space

A cloud without its sky.
A bridge with no support.
Words that can’t be filled in—
Often left with blank spaces.

Stars that have lost their twilight glow...
The flash that once helped me plunge forward.

Going on hiatus.
Slumber—
That never seems adequate.

Ink that blends into the page, doesnt bend
Like I’ve got in touch with nothing.

What is a writer without their hard-hitting words?
What is a pen without the dye to write,
Or a page without its clear, straight lines?

Let’s mould the perfect picture—
make the pieces fit.

SNAP—
it clicks in place.
Hand in hand,
these pieces don’t budge.

We find new wedges,
fresh segments,
attach new memories.
Keep building—

until the juice
isn’t worth the squeeze.

You and I—
dead, forgotten,
living only
in the memory
of what we built—

the perfect life.