Beneath a swirling vortex of stars,
I write my dreams on crumpled paper,
folding each one into the corners of my heart.
Places I’ve never seen,
moments waiting to happen,
they call to me in whispers—
soft, yet instantaneous.


Dive into oceans deeper than fears,
stand atop mountains taller than doubt.
Feel the rush of wind,
the pull of gravity,
the weightless joy of being alive.


This bucket list is more than a record,
it is a promise to myself:
to seek the infinite,
to embrace the fleeting,
to live as though the stars burn only for today.

Beneath the weight of grief’s relentless tide,
Where shadows linger, and the heart must yield,
A softer voice, a quiet light, abides,
To mend the wounds no time alone can heal.

The earth still turns, though loss has stilled the air,
And every dawn is edged with tender pain.
Yet love remains, a flame beyond compare,
A whispered vow: their light is not in vain.

The winds that sigh through ancient oaks and pines
Carry the echoes of their cherished song,
A melody that threads through fragile minds,
A promise that the soul still journeys on.

In every tear, a memory takes flight,
In every ache, a bond no death can break.
Their laughter dwells within the quiet night,
Their love, a gift the heart will not forsake.

So let the sorrow come, but not despair,
For in the stillness, consolation grows.
The ones we’ve lost are never far, but there,
In every bloom and every breeze that blows.

A silhouette drifts through the mist,
shaped by memory but not quite there—
a figure lost between the spaces
where time forgets its own name.


Wings flutter, soft as dust,
stirring the silence in slow breaths,
like the whispered promise
of something never meant to be.


The air is thick with the weight of nothing—
a presence that slips through your fingers
before you can hold it,
before you can understand.


In the distance, a song plays,
but its notes are hollow,
echoing through the vacant spaces
of a forgotten world.


It is as though the fairy exists,
but only in the spaces where eyes do not see,
where dreams and memories fold together
like forgotten pages,
and everything is both real
and utterly lost.


You reach for the hollow light,
but it fades before you touch it,
leaving only the scent of something once pure,
a trace of something you can never claim,
floating away
into the quiet dark.

In the quiet dusk, beneath a gray-veiled sky,
A woman stood by the river's edge, alone.
Her name was Liliana, a flower in the wind,
Once vibrant, now wilting in the twilight of her years.


Her tears fell silently, mingling with the soft rain,
As she watched the petals she had plucked, one by one,
Drift down the river, a gentle procession of loss.
Each petal was a memory, a whisper of love,
Now carried away by the relentless current.


Liliana's hands, once tender and warm,
Were now cold, trembling like the autumn leaves.
She had loved once, with a heart as open as the sky,
But time had withered that love, like flowers left to fade.


She followed the petals with her gaze,
As they floated down the stream,
Disappearing into the distance,
Where the river met the horizon,
And the sky kissed the earth with a sorrowful sigh.


The rain washed over her, a cleansing balm,
But the pain remained, buried deep within,
A thorn that refused to be dislodged.
And as the last petal vanished from view,
Liliana whispered a name,
One that the wind carried away,
To mingle with the rain and tears,
Forever lost in the river of forgotten dreams.

The air hums with a broken prayer,
twisted in the folds of a dying hymn.
A voice calls from the depths—
not quite human,
not quite lost.


The ground beneath you pulses,
soft as the heart of a phantom,
thrumming with a rhythm
too wild,
too distant,
to comprehend.


Waves of distortion crash,
a shattered glass ocean,
its pieces cutting the silence
like forgotten screams.
It is chaos,
but it is home.


A flicker of something holy,
something heretical,
clings to the edges of the sound—
like a dream that slips
through the cracks of reason,
where belief fades
and doubt takes root.


You step into the void,
guided by shadows
and fractured prayers.
The world bends and breaks,
but still you move forward,
drawn by the melody
that only you can hear,
and the truth that lies
in the shattered notes.


There is no salvation here,
only the quiet descent
into something new—
where the sacred
and the profane
are one.

Mary, a name, not just a whisper,
But a haunting echo of a wrong,
An imprint left by years of scorn,
Borne on the breath of regret and sorrow.


Mary, the syllables heavy,
Each letter a shackle to history,
Carrying the weight of unspoken grudges,
Of mistakes and broken promises.


The eyes that once shone with innocent hope,
Now dulled by the tarnish of disdain,
Mary—each mention a scrape of bitterness,
A reminder of all that’s been lost.


In the hollow spaces where your name lingers,
The silence screams louder than words,
Regret twisting like thorns around the memory,
Sadness pooling where love once dared to tread.


Mary, an echo of a choice not taken,
A ghost in the mirror of faded dreams,
You bear the brunt of every forgotten apology,
A name suffused with the agony of the past.


In the rooms where once was laughter,
Now only the hollow chime of contempt,
Mary—crushed beneath the weight of expectations,
A symbol of what might have been.


Forgive us, for we know not the damage,
The cruel irony of naming, the sharp sting,
Of turning beauty into a battlefield,
Where every utterance is a scar.


Mary, cursed with the burden
Of an inheritance you never sought,
Your name, a shadow of what was lost,
A testament to the bitterness we carry.