It’s an uncommon thing,
To be someone that can elicit emotion and thought,
To have a presence that invokes passion and desire.

There are countless things that can drive us to be better,
To reach higher, to strive for more.

Words on a page, echoes in music,
The light that brings the world to life as dawn breaks,
But those don’t look you in the eye.

They don’t stand next to you,
Breathing the same air.
They don’t laugh in a way that sticks to your skin,
Pulling you into a moment.

And it doesn’t seek attention.
Without effort, it’s a presence that already holds it.
With no intention,
It exists in a way that can’t be ignored.

It’s an unfortunate thing,
That most are seen but not felt,
And I used to wonder what it might be like
To have that.
I was envious.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to realize that I am lucky,
Because I get to feel it.
The shift when you walk into a room,
The way the world pauses—not because you demand it,
But because even silence seems to recognize you.

And because of people like you, I don’t need to be the one who lingers in the minds of others,
Because I get to witness something rare.
I get to be moved by it,
To know that for a moment, I was in the presence of something unforgettable.

And that, I’ve come to learn, is its own kind of significance.

I stare at stars waiting patiently,
For it to come to me as it blinks,
Through My eyes which is humid,
I wait in the dry wind.
I stood up tired , as I wait the
Clouds to be  cleared , and the stars
It Hid,
I want the stars again to shine
And the moon to dwell the sky as it
Caress it , all I do now is longing for
Peace that bestowed once upon me !

The world is filled with sadness and pain

And it won't go away at the first rain

United, never divided, we can make it out alive

Maybe even have the time of our life

It won’t be easy, it won’t be a fairytale

Advancing through the narrow, twisted trail

The light at the end of the tunnel is farther and farther

Holding back tears becomes harder

If the path gets steeper

Take my hand, together we’ll dive deeper

The question to ask, an answer that never comes

How can the world be a better place

If we live as recluses, everyone with their space?  

Take my hand, together we’ll understand

We’ll venture into an unknown land

Discover the secret hidden from man

But for now,  
Will you sit with me?  
And watch for the shadows in the smoke?  
Maybe even see the dance of what could be?  

And if they do—  
Maybe we do more than trap them in a jar.  
Maybe we can raise the bar.  
Maybe we can see  
Just how far  
The shadows in the smoke flow—  
If we work together  
To keep this fire aglow.

I hate this hunger, gnawing loud,
a whisper turned into a crowd.
I write for peace, for truth, for light—
yet crave the echo in the night.

A thousand eyes, a million hearts,
I want the world to know my art.
Though kindness rains and love is near,
still something selfish stirs in fear.

Why isn’t enough just enough?
Why does praise feel like fragile fluff?
Why do I ache for louder cheers,
when gentle voices ring so clear?

I count the stars, but chase the sun—
forgetting how the moon has won
my poems over with her grace,
while I still seek a grander place.

I loathe this thirst I cannot quench,
this greedy pull, this inner wrench.
Yet deep inside, I see the root—
a child who just wants to feel absolute.

But let me learn to love this pace,
to write for stillness, not the race.
To hold each word, each soul, each view,
and know—enough is something true.

The shadow in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my father.
He stands behind my mother’s chair like an advisor to the queen.
He does not poison her mind or plan treason against her throne.
Her tyranny extends to the invisible shackles on his long-broken mind.

The ghost in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my brother.
Though he has died, he never passed on to the better place he deserves.
His phantom lingers in my mind, trying to reach out and touch this plane.
He can’t feel the tender dew on the soft grass unless he uses my hands.

The witch in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my sister.
Though she has left the inner coven, she is still trapped under her oath.
Her spells of cord-cutting and separation can only do so much against it.
As her mistress sleeps, her work to free herself from her bond does not stop.

The monster in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my mother.
She controls our movements like a puppet on a string, never stopping.
There is no freedom to reign over my or my family’s actions but hers.
Her little marionettes may never break free from the suffering they endure.

They told me I was loved.
Said it like a fact, like a given, like air.
And I nodded, let the words settle on my skin
but never sink in.

Because love—love is hands reaching,
but understanding?
Understanding is knowing why mine pull away.

I sat in rooms full of people who swore they cared,
but no one asked why my laughter always came half a second too late,
why silence fit me like a second skin.

They called me beautiful, said I was smart,
but never saw the way I flinched at echoes of my own thoughts.
They held me when I cried, but no one ever asked
what the tears were trying to say.

I used to think I was ungrateful—
to have love but still feel lost.
But now I know:
Love can be loud, can be warm, can be everywhere—
and still not speak your language.

So if you’ve ever felt this way,
like you exist in translation,
like love is the ocean but you are still thirsty—
I need you to hear this:

You are not wrong for wanting more.
You deserve to be understood.