Where in the world?!
What in the world?!

- Poseidon

How in the world?!
𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝?!
Why in the world?!

-Zeus

Wanna test it?!
Can we ¹perfect it?!

-Hades

Once there was a girl
Who was as beautiful as a shining pearl.

She was her father’s princess,
And for her mother, an ocean of happiness.

Her angelic smile was contagious.
Amidst her laughter and giggles, she was a genius.

She would paint and play all day—
“A chirpy little girl,” they would say.

One day, suddenly, her life changed;
A storm came by, unexplained.

She stood there strong at the age of seven,
When people her age live in heaven.

The storm went by after a year,
and left her shattered in tears.

Her mind was flooded with memories that were bad;
She ceased to smile, as she was sad.

The misery did not end there—
Another storm could be sensed in the air.

She endured that too, silently;
Her mind was left with another bad memory.

The storms ceased to leave her,
And the memories became even more bitter.

But she managed it all so well—
No one knew she was living in hell.

But one day, she could take it no longer.
She decided to give up, not knowing she was stronger.

She now turned to medication and pills,
because she could no longer deal with the ills.

Suddenly, on her darkest night,
She found her brightest light.

What brought in the brightest light?
The realisation that she could fight.

I made peace with my station eons ago,
Perched atop a mountain edge, overlooking a sea of my thoughts.
I sit on the ground while the tall grass sways,
Knees to my chest, drinking it all in,
Hair blowing softly by the winds of change.
A place made on my own,
Created from protection or fear, origin unclear.

Today's a little different however,
The temperature is warmer,
And I'm missing the slight rain that usually falls.

Maybe I’m out of my mind,
But I swear there’s a boat resting on my beach,
Worn and waiting with patient grace,
Rocking gently in the shallow reach,
As if to say, “You’ve sat here long enough,”
Inviting me to finally stand,
To leave this quiet mountain edge behind
And see where I might land.

In the warmth of a Midsummer's day
He found himself shrouded by darkness
No ray of sunshine seemed to pierce
Irony of which he hated to say

His demons were fighting for display
For years he ran, ignoring his brokenness
Breaking points came and went
All of which bore a cost he didn't want to pay

Problems compounded, as did his fierceness decay
All he wanted was empathy and grace
Time would heal he believed
His old wounds rotting, never healing

If only he could come to terms with his own insecurities
He picked the scabs that needed care
In the Midsummer's heat, the cost became clear
No one could decide his path, nor were miracles his key

Should he turn around and face the sun
Would the war be won
No crusade concludes with retreat
Confrontation was his need

Not by knife or gun ablaze
But by actions, acknowledgement, belief
What more could he say?
Would answers come by asking another?

A fool's folly, facetious belief
His upbringing was not his burden
And his reactions were not excuses
As other's actions were their own

It is with hope he comes to terms
Accepting what has come and gone
For then true growth begins
A cautious hope came again

It was on this Midsummer's day
The boy became a man
With acceptance, his demons stayed
What was more was his change

Maybe then a ray of sun
Could evolve into healing heat
Comfortably warming this newborn man
Instead of scorching the neck of the son

I miss how the hours passed—filled with joy, connection, and pride.
How the city night lights accompanied me home.
The routes, the journey, the walk.
How some nights were long, exhausting—
And reaching home felt like heaven-sent.
I miss the mundane, the routine.
I miss living the days I once prayed for.

Now I wait—to heal, for time,
For the days to pass and release me.
A better version—the one I’ve prayed to grow into.
How expensive it is to be deserving—
Of a better version, a better life.

I promise to do better each day.
Promise not to let this drag me down, consume me.
I promise to savor this:
A break that is a gift.
And I promise not to regret being given the chance to rest.

Learning that I, too, deserve unconditional love.
I’m thankful for this pause
And I know it will not be in vain.
Receiving love does not mean
You have to spare your bones for it.

I can smell it in the distance. This pause,
This current life I’m living.
It’s pulling me closer to a better version of me.

So now, all I do is try.
Survive.
And savour this life,
The one that’s slow,
The one that crushes you on certain days.

I promise to survive this.
In triumph.

I long to write beautiful words,
That convey love and things like birds.
Poetry inspired by life,
Stories and tales of overcoming strife.

Instead, the words flow from darkness,
Metaphors oozing harshness.
Words inspired by pain and death.
Conveying my struggles through every shallow breath.

Songs and ballads about glowing angels,
Not demons and monsters portraying dangers.
Hopefully, one day flowers will start to sprout,
From the dying fire, I only knew about.

Words of life and glittering hope,
Emerging from darkness, my blindness will grow.
Music of old heartbreak transforming slowly,
Echoing through my paper and healing mellowly.

They do not speak of dying,
not in the quiet grocery line,
not beneath the flicker of café lights,
not when the sky loosens its robe of stars,
and oh, what a grave mistake.

For death is not some villain in a cloak,
but the oldest truth,
the shadow stitched to your soles,
the hush behind the heartbeat.
And if you dare to meet it,
not with dread, but with reverence,
you live.

Not someday.
Now.

With a fire that does not ask for permission,
you will step out of the anger rooms,
shed the shroud of “what will they think,”
and walk barefoot into your wild life,
untamed, imperfect, and exquisitely yours.

A child who has tasted death’s breath,
returns with eyes older than calendars,
not brave, but lucid.
Not reckless, but awake.

You see, it is not courage,
to sip the rain like wine,
to laugh so hard the stars come closer,
it is logic.
It is sense.
It is the compass of those who know the road ends,
so they sing while walking.

So love.
Not as a performance, but as a pulse.

Learn.
Not for praise, but for wonder.

Taste.
The peach, the kiss, the grief, the salt.

And leave behind no legacy but this:

That you were here.
Truly.
Madly.
Moment by moment, as a brief candle,
burning unapologetically in the wind.

When the world grows
too loud or too fast,
it’s a good idea
to take a step back
and huddle away
into an empty space
where neither sound
nor time
can hurt you,

let silence envelop
your soul—not your self.

Eventually
the grass will grow
and the wind will settle,
all will slow
like in a lush meadow,

and far away
will the struggle drift.

The sky will grow white
with clouds that never rain,
gardens will grow green
without a single ****,

the sun will beat down
not bullets but care,
that nurtures the grass blades
through growth
and lifts the vapour into
the air.

Dimensions and galaxies will
pause,
for the universe cannot
feed.

And all will be.