Some people feel like wildflowers.
Not because they're alone—
but because they always have to grow
where no one thought to plant them.

They’re the ones who hold it together
when no one’s checking if they’re okay.
The ones who carry their own weight,
and everyone else’s too—
because it’s easier than asking for help
and being met with silence.

They’re the “strong ones,”
so no one sees their softness.
No one asks about the tears
they wipe in bathroom stalls
between being “fine” and being “functional.”

They show up.
Even when it hurts.
Even when their chest is tight
and the noise of the world
feels like sandpaper on their soul.

They don’t want pity. They just want someone
to notice how tired they are of blooming in the dark.
Of being beautiful in ways no one stops to admire.
Of offering warmth when they haven’t felt it in weeks.

They want
—not the spotlight— but a soft place to land.
A voice that says:
“It’s OK. You don’t have to be strong today.”

And maybe you’re one of them.

Maybe you're tired, too.

So let this be a hand on your shoulder,
a whisper in your storm:
You matter.
You are not invisible.
And you don’t have to bloom alone.

Let me breathe;🧘🏻‍♀️
with the breeze,
where sun is shining,
       with a peep..🫣

It seems as carpet;
    of some blooms, 🌸
     that make a vibe;
       full of gleams 🥰

luminous stars rise
night-blooming jasmine unfurls
'neath glimmering sky

I will not write of daffodils,
Nor will I praise the rose.
Don't get me wrong - I see their beauty.
I just don't connect to their charm.

Sweet and tender they shine,
Picked, sold, gifted as a treat.
Beauty to look at, easy to get.
I do not want what I haven't got.

Instead, I'll write of sunshine,
Of untamable feral perfection,
Of things that bite
Should you try to claim them.

I'll write of striking composition,
Wilting within our gardened trip,
Yet blooming when undisturbed and wild,
Sharp-edged and stubbornly bright.

I'll write of what my soul needs most,
I'll write of gorse.

''A beautiful weather,
Where trees float in the air,
Where the sound of rain
Just makes you want to catch a train.

It's all in the picture now,
Since the day I made a vow.

Nothing lasts forever,
I thought it was impossible to say the word “never.”

I'm just a girl whose dreams are too high,
But never high enough to defeat me.

I'm still the same girl you see every day,
I am the girl that I dream to be.

No matter how many times you blow,
I will still let myself grow.

For every leaf that fell from the tree,
For every tear that escaped and said, “I'm free...”
For every flower that I was given,
That made me fly in the dream I lived in.

I'm here today, for all the women who never got to say:
“I wish to be whoever I want to be... and someday, I will be.”

You see, this is not a drill,
Or a game you can finish on a grill.

It’s ourselves—our rights, our voices—who will be heard,
Within our dreams that will be free, like a bird.

The sky is clear,
And the sound of rain is all I want to hear.
While the moon is gazing at me,
And the stars are inspiring me.

Ugh…
No better day to write how I feel.''

The wind had stilled.
The world no longer trembled.
And in the hush of a moment that didn’t rush,
the boy walked to the guardian.

Not as a whisper.
Not as a ghost.
But as a soul finally ready to be seen.

His small hand, trembling and warm, reached for the guardian’s.
The man flinched at first—
not from fear, but from disbelief.

“I saw it,” the boy whispered. “Everything she saw in you… I saw it too.”

The guardian blinked, as if light had touched a part of him long buried.

“You are full of colors,” the boy said, smiling through wet eyes.
“Bright ones. Soft ones. Scars that still shine.
And you don’t have to carry that heavy armor anymore.”

The guardian looked down at the shield strapped to his arm.
It had always been there, forged from guilt, duty, silence.
He let it fall.
The clang was gentle—like a stone returning to the earth.

The boy placed a hand on the guardian’s chest.
“I’m here with you now.
We can breathe together.
Finally.”

And they did.

In and out.
Slow and steady.
A shared breath, long denied, now alive.

And with each inhale, something opened.
And with each exhale, something softened.

The boy no longer needed to hide in the shadows of memory.
The guardian no longer needed to be the last one standing.

They had found each other.
And together, they stepped forward—
not as fragments,
but as one whole being
who had just learned
they were allowed to live.

i dont always feel
like im growing,
like im changing --
but even flowers
take their time
to bloom
and to change.