The *** never worries about its shine,
but only if the chef can stir more than heat.
Good looks can season the eyes, but flavor
fades quickly if the soul isn’t fed.

Jewels on the counter don’t make a meal—
the scars of the pan prove it’s lived through fire.
A recipe isn’t written in gold, but in burns,
in the scrapes, and in hands that keep cooking.

So dress the kitchen however you please,
but know this: the worth of what you serve
is weighed in the scars you carry, not the shine
you polish.

And now I ask—
which kind of *** are you?

no one knows
you better
than i do.

so get back up—
start again.

don’t you dare
go down,
don’t disappear,
don’t vanish
into thin air.

you spent your life
wallowing, drowning,
instead of swimming—
you chose
to sink.

so just beat it.
beat it.

to make it out alive,
you do what you can.

so beat it.

obstacles are gifts,
challenges in disguise.

one second. two.
count to ten.

time is valuable.
it doesn’t matter
how long it takes—

just beat it.

Fighting for sleep,
fighting for peace.

Manic, depressive
episodes, just
to start.

Doing everything I can
just to not
fall apart.

So I can
make it another day—
wake up
with a fresh start.

Tried to reset,
tried to see,

but the future is blurred,
and I can’t believe
I’m back at square one:

the battle
of the elastic
heart.

The knives
hit harder
this time,

but I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid
to get back up,

and show the world—

I’m not broken.
I’m not folded.
I’m not out
for the count.

I never grew tall enough to
confidently grasp the top shelf
cereal box on the first try.
Fumbling, I’d finger its corners—
swiping mercilessly at its edges
until I could feel it fill
the curves of my desperate palm.
It gives in. Gravity assists.
Heels hit the floor.
I won again.
Back then, Persistence was my
favorite professor who always
curved the final.

I never grew mindful enough to
confidently grasp when
I should end the chase.
Writhing, I want and want—
curating the parts of myself
I think he’d like the most, but
he never turns on the light.
I collect dust. The hour hand assists.
Heels hit the floor.
I have this lesson on repeat,
and the stop button is broken.
These days, Hope has become my
favorite form of punishment
who expertly disguises herself
as wisdom.

Once, I gave up.
Once, I quit.
I looked in the mirror,
But I couldn't recognize the figure staring back at me—
A failure, a quitter.

My head swelled with thoughts,
Guilt draped my neck like a heavy chain.
My chest tightened, each breath a battle.
My eyes wandered in the silence,
The throbbing of my heart loud enough to be heard across town.

Silent rivers flowed freely, wetting my cheeks.
I turned to the mirror again—
Its cracks mirrored the ones in me.
This time, I was broken, shattered, lost.
I just want to be me.
I want to give my best, but my best has never been enough.

Feelings of low self-esteem creep in.
Guilt shimmers in every word I speak.
Regret follows my every action.
I am frightened of myself—
I have become my worst enemy.

"Help me help us," I whispered, torn—
"You and I, the past and the future—
We can't keep breaking apart."


The silence lingered.
Then, something stirred within me.
A flicker, small but steady.
The mirror didn’t just reflect my pain—
It showed a fighter, bruised but breathing.

I wiped my tears.
I stood a little taller.
Maybe I had lost myself before,
But I could still find her again.

I am not just my failures.
I am not just my regrets.
I am the fire that refuses to go out.
And this time, I won’t quit.

                          Hephzy [D.I.C]