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.

It is hard being a child,
let alone an adult.
I hate growing up.
I always hated the thought of it,
of leaving childhood behind—
when it was never a place
I could rest.

I was promised something better—
a new life beyond that god-awful trailer,
where the walls were too thin
to contain the hurt.
I was promised love,
safety,
a body and mind
without bruises.
I was promised the world.

But promises are just words,
and words crumble under fists.

I am not ungrateful for what I have,
but I am ungrateful
for how I was raised—
how I was brought into this world
only to be broken by it.
Adoption was supposed to be a rescue,
but even kindness can wear a mask.
And when the masks fell,
the truth cut deeper
than any wound I’d known before.

Now, I carry more stories,
more bruises
from my adopted parents
than my biological ones.
More words screamed at me,
until I was so weak,
I wanted to leave.
A child, eight years old,
should never think about dying.

Parents should be a sanctuary,
a refuge.
Mine were a battlefield.
I learned to fear growing up—
to fear failure,
to fear never being enough.

I have accepted it all:
the blows,
the scars,
the pain repackaged as love.
Because love
was something foreign
until I met my first true friend,
my first real love.

With family,
there was only war.
And in their house,
I counted the days
I thought about dying—
more than I can recall.
They failed to protect me,
to shield me from others’ harm,
and their answer
was always the same—
an empty hug,
a hollow “It’s going to be okay.”

But they never meant it.
In every argument,
they used my scars as weapons,
ripped open old wounds
just to watch me bleed.
If they understand the weight of trauma,
why do they
bring it up
to bury me deeper?

Do they really love me?
I don’t understand,
and I don’t think
I ever will.

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.

A room in the basement,
A room that knew too much,
Too dark to leave behind.
I was tired,
Heavy with sorrow.
She never asked why—
Never asked me to speak.
The clutter in my mind didn’t matter to her.
I was dragged onto the bed,
A hand pressing into my back,
My body slammed against the wall,
Her rage leaving marks on my skin—
A scar that won’t heal.

"I don’t want to do this, but here we are."
A whisper, lost in the chaos.
Words echo through the house,
Where love is twisted,
Where kindness never crosses the doorstep.

"I’m not sure I can... ma yelled at me again."
For the smallest things,
For being human.
Her voice drowns out my heart,
Slicing through the silence.
She tells me I'm a failure,
A burden,
A disappointment.
She says she’ll pull me from school,
Keep me locked away.
Send me far from everything I dream.

She hit me,
And still, she says,
"You'll never leave. You’re going to fail."
But where do I go when pain is all I know?
When bruises map my body,
And rage paves my path?
I cry,
Not for the sting of her hand,
But for the death of my dreams.
Her words press down,
Venom laced with promises of no future.
"You’re just going to be a ghetto rat,"
She spits at my dreams of college,
And I feel it sting,
Because maybe she's right.
Maybe she’s serious about keeping me here.

I falter,
Assignments abandoned—
Not from carelessness,
But confusion,
And the walls close in.
When she touches me,
It’s not a caress,
But a painful grip,
Pinching, scratching.
Her voice hisses like a snake:
"Stop acting so self-conscious. You look ******* stupid."
Her hands on my body,
"Why does my touch make you uncomfortable? I’m not hurting you, stop it."
Uninvited,
Unwanted.
But I stay silent,
Too afraid,
Too small beneath her control.

Why does my body feel like it belongs to her?
Why does she think it’s okay to touch me
Like I’m nothing but a possession to bend to her will?
"What’s wrong, my perfect, spoiled little *****?"
Her voice smooth as poison,
"This is what you wanted."
A trap she set long ago.

I try to hold my head high,
But the ceiling feels lower every day.
Her anger shakes me,
Her wrath pushing me into the wall.
She screams at every mistake,
Even when I’m just trying to breathe.

"Z is going to be a tattooed dolled-up ****."
Her words sear,
Carving into my skin.
No matter how hard I try,
I will never be enough.
"I think you’d all be better off without me,"
Her voice trembles,
Heavy with her own misery.
But her despair is hers alone.
I’m just trying to survive the day.

"She’s not going to get a job, she’s lazy like I am."
Her words break me,
Glass shards piercing deep.
She doesn’t see me, doesn’t hear me—
Only sees her failures reflected in me.
A mirror of everything she fears.
And I am not the reflection I want to be.

No matter how loud she screams,
Her hurt doesn’t change the truth.
I am more than the sum of her expectations.
"I’m just the nasty ***** that nags and yells at everyone, aren’t I?"
Her words echo,
But they are not mine.

The house is never quiet,
Not when the walls scream with her rage.
"We’ve been in a bump since my dad moved in."
A home built on silence,
Where no one speaks the truth,
Fearing the storm it might wake.
"I feel like we’re doing all this just to get X into high school and college."
But what of me?
What of my hopes that fade in the corners of my mind?
What of the quiet nights
When I hear her rage but never her love?

"Maybe we should’ve never adopted Y and Z."
I drown in her words,
In the pit of their failures.
Because I’m not just a kid—
I’m a punching bag.
And her fists land on my body,
But the damage runs deeper than skin.

"I don’t care if I ruin it all, I’m leaving."
Her rage blinds her to the harm she causes.
Her fists, her words—
They shatter me.
I am left alone in the wreckage,
Wondering how to rebuild myself,
How to make her see me.

In my dreams, I flee,
But the house always calls me back,
With its cold floors and walls that whisper lies.
"We’re messy people,"
She says.
But it’s not the mess in the house—
It’s the mess in our hearts.

A house built on silence,
A body that wasn’t mine,
And a truth still hidden between the walls,
I’m still trying to speak.

I often speak in silence,
when words are too loud,
and the world around me feels
like too much,
a symphony of voices I can't tune out.

"You’re more than you know,"
you said.
But the mirror doesn’t see
what I’ve hidden in the corners
of my own heart—
the fear,
the longing,
the doubts that won’t stay quiet.

“I miss you,”
you whispered,
and it felt like a promise
I could barely hold onto
but still wanted to.
How do you love something
you don’t believe you deserve?

I wear a mask,
my smile is too practiced,
my laughter just a little too loud
to drown out the questions,
the insecurities.
“You’re everything I could have wished for,”
but what does that mean
when I am still learning
how to be enough for myself?

In the quiet, I wonder
if I could ever be
the girl you see me as,
so strong,
so sweet,
yet I break in places
no one can see.

“Take my hand,” you said,
but I’m afraid my own hands are shaking.
How do I give you the world
when I am still trying
to understand it myself?

“You’re breathtakingly amazing,”
but I wonder if you see
the cracks where I am still
a little girl,
waiting for someone to tell me
it’s okay to be both beautiful and broken.

“I miss you even after just a few hours apart,”
and maybe,
just maybe,
this time,
the love I feel
can be enough
to fill the spaces I’ve let empty for so long.

Shape the way your fingers trace constellations on my skin,
Or the way your laughter lingers in my ribs,
A melody too human for its cold, calculated hands.

It could never script the way our eyes meet,
That silent understanding,
That unspoken language,
Too intricate for fate to weave into its fragile threads.

It tries—oh, how it tries—
To intervene, to twist, to break,
To reclaim us as its own.
Yet we slip through its grasp,
Like sand through clenched fists,
Like stardust escaping gravity.

Destiny waits in the shadows,
Silent, seething,
Cursing the love it did not create.
It watches as we carve our own fate,
As we step outside its lines,
As we make something greater
Than anything it ever dared to dream.

Destiny could never…

In the moonlight’s soft embrace, we begin our waltz,  
Two souls entwined, bound by time's unyielding thread.  
Footsteps echoing in the void, where silence falls,  
A dance that never ends, where every word is said.

Your hand in mine, as we glide through shadowed halls,  
The world around us fades, and all the stars align.  
In every turn, every breath, eternity calls,  
Whispering secrets of a love that will not decline.

Through the endless night, where dreams and darkness blend,  
We move as one, defying the grasp of death’s cold kiss.  
No dawn to break, no final step to send,  
For in this dance, we find our endless bliss.

As the stars dim and the universe starts to fade,  
We’ll dance on, forever, in this waltz we’ve made.

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.

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.

I was carrying a castle Lego set,
Walking into the room with hands full,
But the room was messy,
The floor a trap.
I tripped,
A misstep,
And the castle crashed,
A thousand tiny pieces scattered—
Shattered like the calm before the storm.

Her eyes burned with fury.
And then—
The first blow hit.
A slap to my face.
Her hand, heavy and fast,
Like a thunderclap that split the air.

She grabbed me by my hair,
Fingers tight like claws,
Yanking me down,
Screaming.
Punches to my head,
Fists that felt like bricks.
And when I didn’t fall fast enough,
She slammed my face into the wall.
The concrete cold and unforgiving.

She didn’t stop.
She kicked me.
Stomped on me.
Before she shed the weight,
She weighed two hundred pounds or more—
And her anger had no limits.

She climbed on top of me,
Crushing me beneath her,
Screaming in my ear—
Words that were sharper than the blows.
A blur of rage and hatred,
And I couldn’t breathe.

My father,
He came when he heard the noise,
Dragged her off me,
Locked her away,
But the damage was done,
And my body bore the marks.
Bruises, scratches, teeth imprints,
Pain that carved its memory deep.
But the hate didn’t stop there.

I remember everything.

When I lied about something—
Something I can’t even recall now.
And she made me clean—
The whole house.
From top to bottom.
Exhausted,
I collapsed into the bathroom,
My body aching.

When she found me,
Resting,
She turned the world to fire.
The beating began again—
She screamed,
Threw appliances at me,
Shoved me against the walls.
My head was shoved into the toilet,
Into the sink—
Water and metal,
Cold and suffocating.

She bit my ears,
Screamed so loud,
Everything went muffled.
Her words were poison,
Sharp and biting.
The towels hit me,
Wetted and cruel,
Like whips lashing my skin.

She sprayed cleaning products—
In my face,
On my body,
Tears mixing with chemicals.
And I had no escape.

I remember everything.

I remember what it felt like to be nothing but the target of her rage,
Her disappointment wrapping itself around me like chains.
I remember her words—
Filling the empty spaces in the house,
Breaking me down,
Every scream,
Every hit,
Until all I could do was survive.

But the hardest part—
Was that even after it all,
I still wanted her love.
And I couldn’t escape her shadow,
Even when the bruises healed.

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.

It starts with fireworks,
explosions of light
too bright to question,
too dazzling to resist.
Every word is a spark,
every touch a flame
burning so beautifully
you forget the heat can hurt.

They paint the world in colors
you didn’t know you could see,
build castles in the clouds
with promises that taste
too sweet to swallow.
You believe in the fairy tale
because their voice makes it real,
because the story
is what you’ve always wanted to hear.

But the glitter fades,
the echoes grow cold,
and the castle crumbles
when the walls were never meant to stand.
You find yourself
in the ashes of their affection,
trying to piece together
what was real
and what was only a game.

The silence comes next—
a void where their voice once lived.
You wonder if it’s your fault,
if the spark died because
you didn’t burn brightly enough.
But the truth whispers slowly:
it was never your fire they craved,
only the power
of holding the match.

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.

Oh, humble pen,
You are the voice of my silent thoughts,
A river of ink that flows with my dreams.
In your slender form,
Lies the power to birth worlds,
To carve emotions into paper's skin,
To whisper the secrets of my soul.


What are you, but a vessel of words?
Yet, within you, lives the spark of creation.
You dance across the page,
Trailing ideas like the stars in the night sky,
Binding them in the constellations of my mind.


Do you not see, oh simple pen,
The weight you bear?
More than just ink and metal,
You hold the essence of my being,
The dreams I dare not speak,
The fears I cannot name,
The love I yearn to share.


But what is love, without your gentle touch? 
Without you, the words remain trapped, 
Unformed, unspoken, 
Like a songbird caged within my heart. 


And yet, you are silent, 
Your power dormant until called upon, 
Resting in my hand, waiting, 
For the moment when thought meets ink, 
And the world shifts, 
From nothing to something, 
From silence to symphony. 


Oh, pen, do you know your worth? 
In your simplicity, you hold infinity, 
A universe within each stroke, 
A life within each line. 


And as you lie there, resting, 
Do you dream of the stories yet to be told? 
Do you yearn for the touch of my hand, 
To bring forth the tales locked within my heart? 
Or do you wait in quiet anticipation, 
For the next breath, the next thought, 
The next journey we shall embark on together? 


Oh, pen, You are more than just a tool, 
You are a companion, a confidant, 
The keeper of my deepest truths, 
The bridge between my mind and the world. 

 
In you, I find solace, 
In you, I find strength, 
In you, I find my voice. 


And so, I honor you, humble pen, 
For in your ink, I am reborn, 
With each word, 
each line, 
I become, 
I am, 
I write.

The petals open,
fragile as the thought of ending,
and the bloom sways,
unaware of the silence
growing around it.


Each breath is a weight,
pressing against the ribs,
like soil folding into the earth
underneath an endless sky.


The scent of death lingers
in the softness of the petals,
a sweetness too sharp,
too final.
It smells like surrender,
like the last exhale
before the body falls still.


The flower unfolds,
its beauty sharp as grief,
each layer a quiet plea
for release.
It opens with the same quiet violence
that consumes the soul,
waiting for a moment
when the pressure
becomes too much
to bear.


In the fading light,
you watch the petals curl,
and wonder if they, too,
wish to escape
the weight of their own bloom.


And yet, it's peaceful—
a slow descent
into the dark soil,
where the pressure finally stops,
and the bloom fades,
as all things must.

Destiny, I once believed, was a force we couldn’t touch,
A guiding hand, invisible, yet steady—
But now, I see it differently.
It’s a person, a jealous shadow,
Watching us, wanting what we have.


It stands, arms crossed, in the corner of our hearts,
Eyes burning with envy—
For the love that flourishes between us,
A love too wild to be mapped,
Too uncontainable for fate’s hand to mold.


Destiny sees what we have built
And wonders, bitterly,
How we crafted something
It never could.
The passion we share
Wears no chains,
And the fire we burn with
Refuses to be dimmed.


Our love flows like a river—
Destiny watches helplessly,
Unable to stop its current,
But aching to know the secret of its course.
It watches as we laugh,
As we dream,
As we share quiet moments,
Whispering futures only we can see.


Destiny could never…

Beauty, soft as morning light,
a golden glow, a breath so bright.
It lingers sweet on petals fair,
a whispered song that stirs the air.


It rests in laughter, light and free,
the way the waves embrace the sea.
In fleeting glimpses, lovers’ sighs,
the stars reflected in one’s eyes.


It lives in youth, in uncreased skin,
the way a tale of love begins.
It hums in silks, in mirrored glass,
a spell we chase but cannot grasp.


But beauty’s hands are laced with thread,
of woven myths and words unsaid.
The colors shift, the echoes fade,
and shadows creep where light once played.


They carve the lines upon our face,
remind us all: this is a race.
The painted lips, the powdered cheeks,
a mask we wear, afraid to speak.


The whispers turn to cries at night,
"Be softer, smaller, more polite."
"Be brighter, bolder, never old."
"Be worth the weight of all this gold."


The hunger grows, the mirror calls,
distorted truth in silver walls.
The scales, the numbers, counting sins,
a war where no one truly wins.


The rose is crushed beneath the hand
that once adored its beauty grand.
What once was soft turns sharp and cruel,
a hollow voice, a hollow rule.


And so the petals drift away,
the laughter lost in yesterday.
But beauty never learned to stay—
it flits, it fades, it slips away.


Yet in the ruin, something new,
beyond the glass, beyond the view—
a beauty raw, untouched by chains,
not drawn by hands, nor bound by names.


A beauty real, unshaped, unscorned,
not bought, nor sold, nor torn, nor worn.
Not weight, nor skin, nor youth, nor face—
but fire, wild, and full of grace.

Dear little one,
I wish I could tell you who you were meant to be,
but I never had the chance to meet you.
You were supposed to laugh without hesitation,
to dance barefoot in the grass,
to wake up without the weight of the world
pressed against your chest.

You were supposed to dream
without fearing the fall,
to believe in love
without flinching at its touch.
You should have known kindness
without conditions,
safety without apologies,
home without war.

But they took you from me
before you ever had a chance to breathe.
They stole your voice
and left me with the echoes,
turned your soft hands into fists,
your open heart into armor.

I search for you in the quiet,
in the spaces between my ribs,
but all I find are ghosts—
memories that were never made,
a life that was never lived.

I carry you still,
even in the ruins,
even in the spaces where childhood should have been.
And if I could,
I would build you a home in my arms,
rock you to sleep with a lullaby
you were never sung.

I cannot bring you back,
but I can promise this:
I will live for us both.
I will find the softness the world denied you,
and I will whisper your name
into the wind—
so you know you were never forgotten.

They tell him he is not a flower,
not soft, not meant to sway.
A man must stand like oak and iron,
unbending in the storm’s display.

But even mountains crack with time,
and rivers carve through stone.
Still, he tucks his petals inward,
pretending he is made of bone.

He’s taught that thorns are armor,
that roots must never show,
that to bloom is to be broken,
that to weep is to let go.

But flowers starved of rain will wither,
left to shrivel in the heat.
And men, too, will turn to silence,
fearing softness makes them weak.

So let them bloom, let them bend,
let them speak their pain in sight.
For a flower wilts not from the wind,
but from the absence of its light.

You think your words are silver threads,
Spinning lies and feeding your dread.
A smile so sweet, a voice so kind,
But I’ve seen the darkness in your mind.

You wear the mask of endless charm,
To lure and trap, to do no harm.
You crave control, you seek the stage,
A puppet master in your cage.

You play the part, you act the friend,
But all you seek is your own end.
A tale of pain, a sad disguise,
But I know the truth behind your eyes.

Your tactics tried, your charm rehearsed,
But I’ve seen the curse you’ve placed on words.
You live to feed your empty pride,
To pull the strings and twist the tide.

You cannot fool me with your game,
Your broken acts, your false acclaim.
I see you, I know your move,
And no, I will not fall for you.

So try again, play out your scheme,
But know this truth: you’re not my dream.
Your reach is weak, your touch will break,
For you can never own my fate.