I can't smile anymore,
the smile that comes from inside.
Yet my mouth is always
a crescent moon,
shaping,
making others believe I am happy.
This is a self-made delusion,
a mask I wear with practiced ease.

Inside, the echoes of laughter
have long since faded,
replaced by the silence of longing,
the weight of unseen tears.
But my lips curve upward,
a charade of joy,
a façade of light,
while shadows dance within.

I paint on this smile,
a brushstroke of deceit,
hoping the world won't see
the cracks in my armor,
the fractures in my soul.
They see the crescent,
the sliver of light,
and they think I am whole,
unaware of the darkness
that fills the rest.

It's a self-made delusion,
this act of pretense,
a way to shield,
to hide the truth
that my heart has forgotten
how to genuinely smile.
Each day, I sculpt this crescent,
a moon that never waxes full,
a reminder of the joy that once was,
now a distant memory.

I wish I could let it go,
this crescent moon façade,
to let the world see
the storm within,
the struggle behind the mask.
But for now,
I wear my delusion,
a smile that deceives,
a crescent moon
in a sky of sorrow,
hoping one day,
the light will return,
and my smile will be real again.

How can you be sober,
when pain claws at your insides,
when suffering pours like acid rain
onto the fertile ground of your heart?

Each moment is a jagged edge,
each breath a reminder
of wounds that refuse to close.
You walk through shadows,
stumbling over shards of yesterday’s hope,
eyes searching for light,
for a way out of the labyrinth
of your own mind.

Suffering is a heavy coat,
draped over your shoulders,
weighing you down,
pressing your spirit into the earth,
making every step a battle,
every smile a distant memory.

Yet, here you are,
standing in the midst of the storm,
eyes clear, soul fierce.
You feel the pain, the sorrow,
the gnawing ache that never quite leaves,
and still you choose to face it,
to look it in the eye,
to stand unyielding.

Sober, you confront the world
with raw courage,
bearing the scars,
letting them tell your story.
You feel every stab, every burn,
and still, you rise,
unbroken, unbowed,
a testament to the strength
that suffering cannot diminish,
to the resilience
that pain cannot erase.

In the midst of chaos,
you are a calm eye,
a steady flame,
a beacon to those lost in the dark.
Sober, you feel it all,
and in feeling, you heal,
piece by piece,
breath by breath,
transforming suffering into wisdom,
pain into power,
until the weight lifts,
and you stand,
free.

And there is no discrimination
in liking what you like—
no borders to your passions,
no walls to your dreams.

You walk your own path,
each step a declaration,
each choice a celebration
of your true self.
No judgments can bind you,
no prejudice can shade your joy,
for in your heart lies freedom,
a light that shines without fear.

Like what you like,
love who you love,
let your spirit dance
in the colors of your desire.
Wear your uniqueness
like a badge of honor,
a testament to the beauty
that thrives in diversity.

No rules can cage you,
no norms can silence
the song of your soul.
You are a symphony
of unfiltered truths,
a tapestry of varied hues,
and every thread
is a note of defiance,
a chord of acceptance.

In a world that tries to label,
to confine and define,
you break free,
unapologetic,
your preferences a revolution,
your tastes a rebellion
against the monotony
of conformity.

And there is no discrimination
in the joy you find,
no shame in the paths you tread.
For you are a masterpiece
of individuality,
a beacon of authenticity,
and in liking what you like,
you inspire others to see
the boundless beauty
of living true to oneself.

Falling in love wasn't easy with him—
he was trying to rise in love with me.
We were like two currents
in the same river,
one flowing down,
the other reaching up,
both seeking the ocean’s embrace
but from different angles of yearning.

I stumbled into affection,
tripping over my own heartstrings,
while he stood tall,
planting seeds of devotion
in the fertile soil of my soul,
watching them grow slowly,
tenderly,
with the patience of a gardener
who knows that beauty takes time.

His love was not a descent,
not a cascade of emotion,
but a steady ascent,
a climb towards the sun,
lifting me gently,
each touch a rung on the ladder
leading us to the skies.

In his eyes, I saw horizons,
infinite and inviting,
and though I fell,
I found myself rising,
carried by the wings
of his unwavering trust,
his belief that love could soar,
could be an elevation of spirits
intertwined and free.

Together, we learned
that love is not a plunge,
but a shared ascent,
a journey to the peaks,
where we both could stand,
breathing the rarefied air
of a connection
that defied gravity,
turning our hearts into stars,
forever reaching higher,
together.

I stand here, words caught in a maze,
twisting, turning, seeking an exit.
Your eyes reflect impatience,
silently judging me, labeling me
as slow, as lacking.
But it is not me who is shackled by ignorance.

Between us lies an unseen world,
a gap unbridged.
I speak in layers, in depths,
while you skim the surface.
I am not foolish;
I am a river flowing beneath ice,
strong currents hidden from view.

Communication is a dance of souls,
delicate, requiring mutual effort.
You stomp through the rhythm,
dismissing my words.
I am not clumsy;
I am a dancer in the dark,
moving to music you cannot hear.

You see my pauses as signs of weakness,
but they are spaces where my thoughts take flight,
exploring realms beyond your sight.
I am not slow;
I am an eagle on the wind,
soaring through unseen skies.

Each word I speak carries weight,
a map of my universe.
You grasp at them like fleeting shadows,
seeking simplicity.
I am not unclear;
I am a poet with hidden verses,
crafting meaning in layers of light and shadow.

To understand me is to dive deep,
to venture into the unknown.
It is not me who is limited,
but perhaps you who fears the depth,
clinging to the familiar shore.

I am a book with pages yet unturned,
a story rich with layers.
Not a puzzle to be solved quickly,
but a journey to be savored.
I am not incomplete;
I am a symphony in progress,
a melody waiting for willing ears.

Do not judge me by your narrow view.
I am not lacking;
I am a mind in bloom,
vibrant and alive.
If you cannot see my worth,
it is not my light that fails,
but your eyes that are closed to my brilliance.

In this world of varied voices,
let us seek understanding, not judgment.
Let us bridge gaps with patience,
for in true connection,
we find the beauty of our shared humanity.
And in that space, we all shine.

In the garden's dance, where roses sway,
I stood a white amidst red array.
He, drawn to crimson's bold allure,
I lingered silent, uncertain, unsure.

In the midst of petals, scarlet blaze,
He sought the red in love's wild maze.
Yet I, the white, in shadows cast,
Remained unnoticed, until the last.

When all the red had been picked clean,
His gaze fell upon me, serene.
But in his eyes, a love profound,
For another's glance, I found.

His passion for the red rose's fire,
Left me hesitant, my own desire.
For in his eyes, I saw a tale,
Of love that lingered, a vibrant kale.

Yet as he turned to me at last,
A moment fleeting, a love amassed.
I felt a whisper, a tender spark,
In his gaze, I found my heart embark.

In his embrace, I found my light,
A love that bloomed, pure and bright.
Though I was white amidst the red,
In his eyes, a love was said.

So in the garden's tender grace,
He loved the red, while I found my place.
In his eyes, where passion glows,
I found the love that my heart knows.

You made me a version of myself,
That even I don't even like.

You sculpted me into a form anew,
A version of myself, so far from true.
With each chisel of your words unkind,
I lost the essence, the soul behind.

You painted over my vibrant hues,
In shades of gray, where dreams diffuse.
A canvas once alive with bold delight,
Now muted, drained of all its light.

You whispered doubts into my ears,
Filling my mind with anxious fears.
A symphony of self-doubt you played,
Until my confidence began to fade.

You shaped my thoughts, you shaped my skin,
Molding me into someone I've never been.
A stranger stares back in the mirror's gaze,
A hollow echo of forgotten days.

But now I break free from your cruel design,
Reclaiming the colors that once were mine.
For in the wreckage, I find my truth,
Untamed, unbridled, a vibrant youth.

No longer bound by your twisted game,
I rise from the ashes, unafraid of shame.
You made me a version I don't recognize,
But through it all, I rediscover my skies.

I am not your creation, I am my own,
A masterpiece in flesh and bone.
With every scar, with every flaw,
I am whole, I am raw, I am more.

In a room where shadows gather,
a poet sits, pen in hand,
but the ink runs dry,
the words fall silent.
The muse, once a beacon,
now a distant memory,
fades into the abyss,
leaving the poet alone,
bereft of inspiration,
a soul adrift.

His verses, once vibrant,
now lie dormant,
ink on yellowed pages,
tales of love, loss, and time.
Each line a fragment of his heart,
each stanza a piece of his soul,
yet no eyes find them,
no hearts feel their pulse.

The muse has fled,
taking with it the spark,
the fire that once ignited
his every thought,
his every dream.
Despair takes its place,
a shadow creeping in,
tightening its grip,
as hope slips away,
like sand through fingers,
leaving behind a hollow shell.

He recalls the days
when words flowed like rivers,
when each poem was a lifeline,
a bridge to the world.
Now, his pen rests,
still and silent,
a relic of what once was,
a testament to a passion
that has withered and died.

In solitude, he makes his choice,
a final act, a quiet surrender.
The world around him continues,
unaware of the loss,
unseeing of the depth
of his silent pleas,
his unspoken cries.
He slips away,
a shadow among shadows,
leaving behind
only the faintest echo
of his presence.

The stars may mourn,
the moon may weep,
but his words remain,
etched in the fabric of time.
Each verse a whisper,
a ghostly reminder
of a poet's heart,
a soul that chose to die.

No one reads his lines,
no one hears his voice,
yet his spirit lingers,
hidden in the ink,
a silent cry,
a haunting sigh,
a testament to the pain
that no one saw,
to the loneliness
that no one felt.

In death, his words survive,
a haunting echo, a tale alive,
floating in the ether,
waiting for someone,
anyone,
to find them,
to hear the silent scream,
to feel the depth
of his sorrow and despair.

The poet is gone,
his heart stilled,
but his words,
his verses,
live on,
a timeless song
of pain and beauty,
a legacy of a soul
that once burned bright,
now a distant star,
fading into the endless night.

Once upon a time, in a heart so pure,
I believed in love, in tales that endure.
Happily ever after, a dream so bright,
You came along, my prince in the night.

You spoke of forever, in whispers sweet,
Swept me off my feet, a promised retreat.
I trusted your words, believed in your charm,
Thought you’d keep me safe, free from harm.

But beneath the veneer, a darker plot,
You used my love, and then forgot.
Left me shattered, in tears and despair,
A broken heart, a love laid bare.

I waited for you, the prince of my dreams,
But reality is seldom as it seems.
You weren't the hero, nor the knight,
Just a shadow, fading in the night.

In the silence of my deepest sorrow,
I found a strength, a new tomorrow.
Realized I didn’t need a prince to save,
I was the hero, strong and brave.

Fairy tales told me, I needed you,
But in your absence, I found what's true.
Alone, I am whole, a story complete,
With every heartbeat, a steady beat.

I write my tale, with courage anew,
No longer bound by the prince I knew.
In my own arms, I find my grace,
A sovereign spirit, setting my pace.

For I am the queen of my own domain,
No longer seeking in someone else’s name.
Happily ever after, I now define,
A journey of love, wholly mine.