I am a silhouette that’s almost human —
a wishful thought, a half-formed tune.
A path that doesn't circle back,
no map, no rewind, no past to track.
I’m a gunfighter — my words are the bullets,
time the outlaw I’ve hunted in dullness and pullets.
As I’ve killed it slow in many hours lost,
paid my thrills in tears, but never knew their full cost.

I’ve held a love like a flood — wild, rushing, raw,
then dried out in its drought, begging heaven for more.
I chase new highs like I’m being chased —
while fear cracks at my heels, but I still keep pace.
I smile like bravery wrapped in so much doubt,
as each piece of laughter is a whisper trying to shout.
And see that my eyes have carried their tearful ache,
and never the cherry on top of cheerful cake.

But still —
I’ve done the hard things though trembling inside,
lived among broken people; the ones who’ve also cried.
And I may not be whole so often, but I’ve learned to feel,
in every fractured moment — to be something real.

A pistol tucked inside my heart—
memories of old dreams echo like bullet
wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when
I finally let myself be known to myself.

Lips are like public transport;
they carry heavy loads:
sometimes love, sometimes doubt.

But the private lifts? Those are the words
we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying
to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts.

What loads are you carrying? Will your
transport make...or break someone?

Because belief in your own worth is such
a heavy load. And no— it’s not something
you should carry alone.

The weight of any load feels lighter when
the ones you love—and who love you back—
don’t just stand beside you; they help you
carry what you were never meant to bear alone.

No prize awaits the perfect line,
No end to chasing stars that shine.
Yet life, in whispers soft and sweet,
Is perfect where its flaws compete.

A jagged edge, a broken song,
The fleeting days both short and long.
A tender laugh, a bitter tear,
The dance of hope, the brush of fear.

Each crack upon the earth’s old face,
Each shadow in the moon’s embrace,
Reminds us there’s no need to mend
The truths that shape us in the end.

For in the chaos, beauty grows,
In every loss, a seedling sows.
Life’s perfection, wild and free,
Is simply this: to let it be.