I wake with the sun on my skin,
soft sheets, warm cat, the scent of coffee-
a life stitched together with quiet blessings.
Still, the ache rolls in
like fog over golden fields.
The world burns somewhere-
bombs in bedrooms,
mothers in rubble,
children clutching silence like a toy
they no longer know how to play with.
And here I am,
eyes full of water
for reasons I can't explain,
guilt gnawing like a rat
at the corners of my comfort.
How dare I cry
when my fridge hums with food,
when I have hands to hold,
and laughter that visits,
even if it leaves too soon?
I bury my sadness
under headlines,
stacking grief like sandbags
to hold back my own storm.
But sorrow leaks anyway.
Maybe this is the curse of peace-
to carry the weight
of pain you haven't earned,
to feel broken
in a life that looks whole.
I say thank you
and still feel hollow.
I pray for others
and still feel alone.
And I wonder-
is it weakness,
or just being human,
to weep in the garden
while the world is on fire?
