/\
/ \
/____\
| |
| [] | ∆
| | |
|______|🌺 🌺 🌺
I wake up like an old house, battered and beat,
with one light still burning so I don’t feel defeat.
Not for comfort beside me, not to feel whole,
but so I don’t disappear, or drown in my soul.
Maybe just to tell the world I’m still standing here,
maybe so I can remember what it means to feel clear.
Each new day asks questions I don’t answer back,
my strength feels borrowed, my voice feels brack.
That old mirror hands me a face I barely know,
like it’s been waiting on something that forgot to show.
“Who are you?” I ask it, the glass doesn’t move,
it just asks me again like I’ve got something to prove.
The inner pain isn’t loud, it’s learned how to stay,
it’s folded itself neatly into the shape of my day.
It folds all my clothes, sits down by my side,
reminds me of dreams I once kept that now run and hide.
It speaks in my voice, calm, steady, and true,
then leans in close and asks, “Who are you?”
Some days I walk circles and call that growth,
some days I stand still like I’m a guard at my post.
The world keeps moving, it grows without me
vines reaching outward, lilies breaking set free,
and I stay rooted where the ground won’t give,
watching life teach itself how to live.
I keep thinking today is the day it will show,
the sign, the direction, the place I should go.
But nothing announces, no trumpet, no flame,
just stillness that waits and refuses a name.
It stands in the mist, quiet and wide,
asking me gently which way I’ll decide.
Depression’s a fog that remembers my shames,
it hangs on my thoughts, it tightens old blames.
Even when I move, it’s already there,
even when I rest, it’s sitting in the chair.
It tells me I’m late to the life I should own,
asks where I’ve been in a sarcastic dull tone,
like everyone else got the map and the key
while I was learning to walk before trying to breathe.
It’s not every day—just the ones ending in Y,
the ones where I laugh, the ones where I lie.
And this part is small, so I try not to hear,
but sometimes I feel like I’m winning right here
sliding downhill, lungs tight in my chest,
not pain, not hope, just the pull of whats next.
I follow it like someone lost in the dark,
following water by trickle, lightning by a spark.
I don’t know the ending, I don’t know the stay,
only that it’s moving, and so am I today.
And I’m tired of freezing, tired of the wait,
tired of standing still at the edge of the gate.
I don’t need healing, not all, not today,
I don’t need wholeness to show me the way.
I just need to walk till the dark feels thin,
till the ground answers back when my step all begin.
Till the path finally tells me what I couldn’t see
I was never behind,
I was learning how to be.
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 10:53 AM UTC
/\
/ \
/____\
| |
| [] | ∆
| | |
|______|🌺 🌺 🌺
I wake up like an old house, battered and beat,
with one light still burning so I don’t feel defeat.
Not for comfort beside me, not to feel whole,
but so I don’t disappear, or drown in my soul.
Maybe just to tell the world I’m still standing here,
maybe so I can remember what it means to feel clear.
Each new day asks questions I don’t answer back,
my strength feels borrowed, my voice feels brack.
That old mirror hands me a face I barely know,
like it’s been waiting on something that forgot to show.
“Who are you?” I ask it, the glass doesn’t move,
it just asks me again like I’ve got something to prove.
The inner pain isn’t loud, it’s learned how to stay,
it’s folded itself neatly into the shape of my day.
It folds all my clothes, sits down by my side,
reminds me of dreams I once kept that now run and hide.
It speaks in my voice, calm, steady, and true,
then leans in close and asks, “Who are you?”
Some days I walk circles and call that growth,
some days I stand still like I’m a guard at my post.
The world keeps moving, it grows without me
vines reaching outward, lilies breaking set free,
and I stay rooted where the ground won’t give,
watching life teach itself how to live.
I keep thinking today is the day it will show,
the sign, the direction, the place I should go.
But nothing announces, no trumpet, no flame,
just stillness that waits and refuses a name.
It stands in the mist, quiet and wide,
asking me gently which way I’ll decide.
Depression’s a fog that remembers my shames,
it hangs on my thoughts, it tightens old blames.
Even when I move, it’s already there,
even when I rest, it’s sitting in the chair.
It tells me I’m late to the life I should own,
asks where I’ve been in a sarcastic dull tone,
like everyone else got the map and the key
while I was learning to walk before trying to breathe.
It’s not every day—just the ones ending in Y,
the ones where I laugh, the ones where I lie.
And this part is small, so I try not to hear,
but sometimes I feel like I’m winning right here
sliding downhill, lungs tight in my chest,
not pain, not hope, just the pull of whats next.
I follow it like someone lost in the dark,
following water by trickle, lightning by a spark.
I don’t know the ending, I don’t know the stay,
only that it’s moving, and so am I today.
And I’m tired of freezing, tired of the wait,
tired of standing still at the edge of the gate.
I don’t need healing, not all, not today,
I don’t need wholeness to show me the way.
I just need to walk till the dark feels thin,
till the ground answers back when my step all begin.
Till the path finally tells me what I couldn’t see
I was never behind,
I was learning how to be.
