I’m only liquid for fears, drowning quietly in them, a slow flood
behind my ribs, no warning signs, no lifeguards in sight. You will be
a sunflower, but only as far as you choose to reach out for the sun,
bending your whole body toward light, even if the light burns, even
if the roots ache from pulling.

Happiness comes—eager, but never permanent— it’s a guest that
tracks mud on your floor, leaves its jacket behind; just to remind
you it was here, but gone before you could ask it to stay. The good
things in life never seem to last a lifetime, and going out into this
world feels like reaching for a lifeline, but all I catch is air—
thin, trembling air.

Since birth you were beautiful, but survival forced you to wear the
ugliness of the world— stitched hand-me-down scars, fabric heavy
with someone else’s shame. Each day is a costume change that
doesn’t fit, but you wear it anyway, because naked truth doesn’t
pay rent.

We are all swelling with an opus of urban angst, the kind that hums
under flickering streetlights, the melodic slang of hoodlum teens
trading cigarettes for sentences, has become the hustle talk of men
trying to feed the same hunger that never grew up. Yearning to be
something. Yearning to be someone. Constellations made of shattered
glass windows, cracked stars on the concrete, chasing after the sun as
if the further we run, the closer it comes, but the horizon never owes
us an answer.

To love, to be loved— truth arrives dressed in lies at the start,
perfumed to disguise the rot. We impress, but we press too hard,
we call it romance but it’s theatre, and every stage ends in torn
curtains. This life is love, but love isn’t so full of life when it hangs
uneven, dangling off one side like a crooked frame.

Luck isn’t justice. Cause and effect rarely add up to cause what’s
fair.

And yet we paint our burning visions next to ****-splashed garbage
bins, turning dumpsters into backdrops, spray-painting scars into
murals that smell like waste, mistaking rage for art.

Scars deserve worth, not mockery. But too often, anger becomes our
brush, dipped in venom, flung at the wall, and the picture never
reaches far— a masterpiece meant for healing drowned out by
noise.