Guarded by the movement all around me
I sleep under the sun in the breeze
My body on small stones on the beach, not yet aching,
Relaxing and embracing the unknown.

Ducks walking along the river bank,
Exploring,
As boats and kanus move past the shore
Where I rest on this peaceful afternoon,

Welcomed by the movement all around me.

quiet night, silent cold
laid in bed, eyes won’t closed
said nobody died but I’m grieving
can’t explain but something’s missing

fate can be cruel
as if deliberately cruel
to trample your heart
humble you down

I collect my broken pieces
with his wise words of patience
and he said he’s happy enough, he’s grateful
and I realized I’ve strayed from the Most Merciful

I wore apathy like armor
but cracked every time you looked at me
like I was worth being seen.

Even now I blamed timing.
As if clocks are crueler than my own hesitation.
As if love didn’t stand right in front of me
and wait with open hands
as mine stayed tucked in pockets.

I convinced myself I was unworthy
before anyone else had the chance to.
I set fire to every almost
just to say “see, it was never going to last”
like that made it less my fault.

Still, I write this like it matters—
like this confession changes anything.
But all it does
is remind me
that I had everything
and still chose nothing.

Perfectionism is so far away from reality.
Embracing this moment is more than enough.

Let's be grateful for that one moment today which made us smile.

(for the one who remembered)

She comes barefoot—
no veil, no deflection,
no incantations from the high places
to conjure what love has already given.

She comes with smoke in her hair
and ash on her cheek—
but it is not the ash of shame.

It is the ash of sacrifice.

The Asherah poles still burn behind her,
splintering one by one
as she walks away
from the counterfeit embrace
that always left her colder.

She does not flinch at the sight of the altar.
She runs.

And with both hands—
those beautiful, once-bound hands—
she grabs the horns.

She grabs them.

Shakes them;
not to demand,
but to worship—
not to protest,
but to pour out
what only now she knows she carried.

Because now she knows
she is Loved.
Not as a symbol.
Not as an echo.
Not as someone to fix
or someone to use.

But as herself.

The scent of her offering rises—
not of perfection,
but of devotion.

Not the blood of goats,
but the tears of a woman
who thought she had been lost too long
to be welcomed home.

The Lord does not turn His face away.
He draws near.

Because this—
THIS
is the aroma that pleases Him most:

Not the pageantry of idols,
but the girl
who brings her whole ache
and says,

"Thank you for loving who I am—
and for showing me that who I am
is someone to be loved."

The horns tremble
under the weight of such truth.

And heaven,
silent for so long,
weeps with her—

not because she was far gone,
but because she finally came close.

And dared to believe.

I'm living, loving like it is
first time happened in my life long ago.
Cheers, heavens—great like I always prayed.
They come in all sorts.
Happiness comes out of my throat—
giggles, laughs, all comes in different sorts.

Love in my heart.
It is my first time to live it true.
Life feels like flying—
like it's the first time
coming from above.

Bless us sometimes.
I live loving life.
I love it every time I feel alive.

This is my time to say goodbye
for all the cry,
the things drained me.

I'm in a fresh start,
hoping for love and best wishes—
hugs for me.

I want to finally live free.
See me come, go,
like I'm a float boat—
happy like insane.
Heavens blessed me.

Life do really care.

I only dream of reaching you,
Here grounded on this patch of Earth.
Yet all the same, I'm richly blessed
To see your beams of silver-blue,
And sights of all the landscape dressed
In brilliance that gives Night its worth.
What are the dark hours without you?

Before I was born

What was I thinking?
No, stop! What-was-I-really-thinking?
Perfection? There is no such thing here, this side of heaven,
Yet, I’ve spent my entire life trying to be,
More, hating who I was,
Striving to be more?
Was it from the trauma of my first surgery
To my brain at 11 months young, that then suffered, again and again, three times more?
Was it the generational trauma carried in my DNA? Unseen, unheard but screaming: you’re not enough!
Stop trying, give up!
Was it others taunting and teasing, yet in reality testing,
Testing what I would do with their jealous tirade?
What a waste.
That’s not how I want to live anymore.
I want to rethink, no, re-imagine a new reality, and step right into my innate creativity.
Breathed within me before I was born.
By YOU...