It begins with a hush—
the kind that fills your chest,
right before the sky remembers
how to open its heart.

And then it starts—
light breaking through darkness
with no warning, no mercy.
It’s beautiful,
almost unbearably so.
You look up,
and for a second
you forget the silence
that comes after.

I held your hand once
beneath that color sky.
We didn’t speak.
There are no words
that can touch what it feels like
to watch something so eminent
already beginning to end.

That was us

All color,
all chaos,
flashes of everything we wanted to be
and knew we couldn’t hold.

You laughed,
and it cracked something in me.
Not because it wasn’t real—
but because it was.
'Real things don’t last
the way we want them to'

And still,
if I close my eyes—
I swear I can feel the heat
on my face,
like you never left.
Like we are still
watching the skies collide in pastel neons
Like the ending
was always worth
the wonder.

We loved like fireworks.
Loud.
Bright.
Gone.


Erennwrites

I don't want to fall like the leaves in autumn.
or like the snow in winter,
or rain when god is crying down to what a disappointment I am.
I want to shine like the sun, I want them to notice my sparkly lip gloss and admire me, like Athena.
I want to guide everyone through the night with my moonlight.
but I fail to their eyes because they dont see a success,
they see the opposite, they see ugliness. well now I know to never try again.

Under the hush of midnight’s breath,
she walks—umbrella in hand,
not for the rain,
but to hold back the weight
of a thousand watching stars.

Constellations whisper
stories of love stitched in light,
but none are hers.
They shimmer like promises
just out of reach,
their glow a quiet ache.

Her heart, a silent ember,
burns beneath the ribs’ cage—
never flickering,
never fading,
only waiting.

She is flame wrapped in longing,
guarded not by stars,
nor shelter of hands—
but by solace,
the only canopy
that keeps her whole.

And still, she burns—
not wildly,
but patiently,
for the one soul
who'll one day walk
through galaxies
just to meet her


Erennwrites

I have never been one for flowers,
but daisies—
they remind me of something familiar.

They do not boast like roses,
nor do they cling like vines.
They stand, steady and quiet,
rooted deep in the earth,
unshaken by the wind.

I’ve seen them in fields where boys once ran,
where laughter was careless,
where dreams were small but bright.
I’ve seen them by gravestones,
where men stood in silence,
hands in pockets, eyes heavy with things unsaid.

Daisies do not ask for admiration.
They bloom where they must,
where life places them—
by the roadside, in the cracks of stone,
in the hands of a child
who does not yet know their worth.

Perhaps men are like daisies,
weathered but standing,
never asking for much,
but always there


@Erenwrites

Like the sunlight in retreat,
still greets an evening moon
In this passing intermission,
they are sacredly attuned
With a sharing disposition,
one will offer to reflect
The Light that shines Eternal
keeps the promise to project

With pre-ordained precision,
rays of Light are tasked to trace
The constellations mapping out
the storybook of space
In kaleidoscopic fashion,
beaming Lights of every hue
Reveal the coded messages,
once hidden, into view

Five years passing slow
love was never truly there
just a borrowed dream

Words once sparked the night
now drown in the quiet void
hearts speak different tongues

Each step feels like stone
a duty bound by routine
the spark long faded

"Reach for the infinite sun,"
She said, yet pulling the heavens
gravity of doubt

Two worlds side by side
beds cold, the nights stretch endless
their hands never meet

What is left but hope?
A tether to something gone
His mettle whispers, "Stay."

Trying to look in one direction,
It's hard to navigate my own transition.

Many times, I see myself like no other, could I be your sister or your brother? So, then why should I even bother?

My feelings about myself appear difficult for others to comprehend as this has become my own rollercoaster to the sweet, bitter end.

It is not only a mindset of my own personal avenues that I must navigate but they are, also, my own internal processes to which I contemplate and separate.

The push pull of my internal devices appears harmful at times. Feelings of not being happy, called confused, or it's a just phase are word salad moments committing a series of crimes.

I know these interpretations that live inside of me, and I know that the choices that I make can either set me free or keep me locked up forever. Ying-yang in every mindful corner of the room.

I heard a saying the other day that said, "Broken crayons still color". First, I was at odds with this. Because was I really broken? Was my crayon wrapper torn off? Am I being labeled these things from distant voices?

These become unreliable truths made up in feeble minds. Not understanding the differences among us all. It is not creating comfortable realities for us to travel though. Their choices will define them and my choices will define me.

Do I struggle at times? For the most part, yes!!

But you know something.
I am ok with that.
I am ok making my own choices, and I am ok being the person I want to be. That is something that cannot be taken away.

Any transition in life can come with its own set of difficulties. How we navigate them will be the determining factors of our success in all that we do.

𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒
𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑧𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠
𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐴𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑗𝑎𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡,
𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑠;
𝑂 𝐴𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚!
𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔;
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙
𝐼𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔...
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠
𝐼𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠...
𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑠?
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑓
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤
𝐽𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑦....
𝐴𝑧𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠...
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙
𝐺𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑠.....