When I was young, life seemed like an open sky,
endless and blue, gentle as a whisper,
with sunlit mornings, warm and golden,
and nights that folded softly, never too dark.
Back then, we believed in heroes, in kindness,
in happy families, in laughter
that spilled freely across the dinner table,
in parents who kept us safe, tucked in tight,
shielded from storms, untouched by the world’s weight.

But now, with eyes open wide,
I see the jagged lines,
the fractures hidden behind closed doors,
the rot that’s seeped into every corner,
of homes, of hearts, of the earth itself.

I see a world teeming with cruelty,
where broken things are shrugged off,
where pain is passed around like an old family heirloom,
where wrong is worn like a second skin,
something we’ve all grown used to, too tired to shed.
So many are hollow, hiding unseen scars,
walking through days that cut deeper than we’d admit,
haunted by what the world took from them,
hearts shattered, lives upturned, faith crumbled into dust.

Once, I thought love was unbreakable,
that families held tight through the years,
but I’ve watched the vows unravel,
seen love grow tired, thin as paper,
and trust fracture into tiny shards
that can never be pieced back together.

Mental battles rage in silence,
quiet wars fought in the shadows,
the weight of it all hidden behind polite smiles,
as we march on, as if nothing is wrong,
as if we aren’t bleeding beneath these layers
of what we show, of what we hide.
It’s as if the world itself has turned,
into something sharp-edged, unforgiving,
like we’re all just ghosts haunting each other,
too afraid to ask if we’re all this broken.

I remember a time, or maybe I imagine it—
when life was simpler, softer,
when even the wind seemed gentler,
and our dreams felt safe in our hands.
Was it real, that time before I knew
how people could hurt, could betray, could destroy?
Or was I shielded by the naivety of youth,
by some shield that faded as I grew?

Maybe the world was always like this,
a place that tears at the seams,
but I was wrapped in a bubble, too young to understand,
too innocent to see the cracks in the fabric.
Or maybe it’s the world that’s changed,
grown crueler, colder, hungry for pain.

Yet somewhere, deep in the shadows,
something small still whispers,
that not all light has been swallowed,
that there’s goodness hidden in pockets, in people,
a kindness that survives despite the ruin,
a hope that flickers, even as darkness swarms.

I’ve felt it, in the gentle touch of a friend,
in the warmth of a stranger’s kindness,
in moments so fleeting they’re almost forgotten—
but they’re there, small sparks that remind me
of a world not entirely lost, of hearts that still beat soft.

Maybe it’s foolish to hold to this hope,
to believe that something better remains,
but I can’t let go of it, not yet,
because if I’ve seen the good, if I’ve felt it,
then maybe others can too,
maybe it can spread, like a quiet rebellion,
maybe it can grow stronger than the hurt,
maybe it can heal us all, if only we let it.

I want to believe that life isn’t this cruel,
that the beauty I once saw wasn’t a lie,
that beneath this world’s scars and shadows,
there’s a place where love, kindness, and grace
still take root, grow tall, and reach toward the sun.

And maybe, just maybe, if we hold on tight,
if we spread what goodness we have left,
the world can find its way back,
before the darkness takes it all.