You’ve spent a long time walking
down a darker lane,
spiraled out of control,
dragged yourself
into the wrong kind of fame.

Now you’re picking up the pieces,
learning they’ll only remember
who you used to be—
not who you are now,
not who you’re becoming.

There is no turning point
when they look the other way.
Still you hope that someday
someone will take you
with open arms.

’Cause there’s no greater harm
than being lonely,
being lost.
No greater harm
than being lonely,
being lost.

You’ve reached your breaking point,
almost given in.
But I want you to know:
your past does not define
who you are,
or what you’ve become.

You cannot let the sins of yesterday
swallow you whole.
Yesterday doesn’t define
who you’ve become today.

And today,
you are enough.

I didn’t pay heaven’s worth for one hell of a ride— for all the
Valentine cards, I’m just calling their bluff. What’s carved into
stone is too heavy to skip across the rivers of my chest; love
sinks deeper than it pretends to float. A carousel of emotions
spins; all its horses in place— some only love horsing around.
Round and round it goes; the painted smile, waiting for
the cycle to end, for the spell of tomorrow to break.

So I write letters to the future, hopes tangled in snares of my
doubts. The tongue—sharp as steel, soft as silk—knows how
to give life, and *******. We cover scars with scars, as the
extending arm, just to say we’re armed, clutching too many
guns inside our ribs. But how can blessings hold on when
your hands stay hidden, when you wear a balaclava over
your smile?

Harvest comes only from what you’ve planted—patience,
honesty, or silence. Soil on the tongue buries every word
that could have fed us.

So tell me—was heaven’s worth ever meant for one
hell of a ride?

I let myself break like the lines of a poem,
because every break is a continuation
of this complex & beautiful story.

Every break comes with another new adventure, so wild and free.

Another chance to try again when the sun rises
(there will always be tomorrow).

Every break comes with the promise of more poetry.

Good or bad for healing has to hurt

I cut open my wounds and surrendered to myself.
Praying for healing,
Feeling the pain.
Then, it came.
I sit with the foreign feeling within my body, feeling them, nourishing them, treating them with love and as a lesson, instead of
shutting them out, numbing it with partying,
running away to the back of my mind, and blocking them out,
I sat there and faced them all.
It was painful.
It was hard.
It was triggering and traumatic, but those feelings are a part of me. They make me who I am.
It felt like
my heart was shattered into a million pieces.
It was raw.
It was real.
It was a sense of finally being alive.
Tears weren’t enough to bare them, so I allowed myself to cry. And the worst part is - I didn’t feel sorry for myself I felt sorry for my stuffed animal having to bare the burden of my pain and hurt. When all it has done is love me.
I cried, I begged, I screamed, I allowed myself to feel anger properly for the first time.

Finally, I stopped.
I breathed.
feeling the breath.
I had to let it all in before letting it all go.
Then, came some relief.
I see glimpses of freedom and future,
It feels like a small win.
It feels soft.
It feels calm.
It feels good.
That must be the healing.