In twilight realms where masks adorn like stars,
The moon casts her glow most tenderly
Upon those who dance unadorned by pretense,
Their radiance deemed too bright for mortal eyes.
Your empathy—a garden of midnight blooms,
Protected by the trellis of sacred boundaries,
Not to wither beneath harsh judgment's sun,
But to preserve your light for worthy wanderers.

Those who carved rivers of sorrow in your soul
Yet deny the waters flowing from their hands
Cannot offer reconciliation's sweet nectar.
Peace resides not in their distant approval,
But sleeps beside you, faithful as moonlight,
A companion through your darkest hours.
The distance woven between pain and present
Is gossamer silk that must not be torn.

Breaking patterns is the dance of dawn,
The first light dissolving night's heavy chains,
Your silhouette fading like morning mist
From doorways where love never flourished.
In authenticity dwells your freedom's poetry—
No longer folding your boundless spirit
Into shapes too small to hold your vastness,
Standing unveiled in your own sacred truth.

Touch not the fragile wings of survivors in flight—
Their path traced through storms of betrayal,
The space they've claimed between wound and healing
Is hallowed ground won through countless tears.
Make peace with misunderstanding's shadow,
Release the weight of constant explanation,
For your truth blooms most beautifully
When nurtured in soil that welcomes its roots.

If one day you break, too tired to cope,
And search the dark for hands of hope
Don’t reach for theirs, they come and go,
With fleeting warmth and faces you don’t know.

Just lift your left and find your right,
The one that’s stayed through every fight.
Your other hand, scarred, quiet, true
Has carried all that life gave you.

It wiped your tears when no one cared,
It held your chest when pain was bared.
No vow, no oath, no distant friend
Can match the grip it dares to lend.

So fold your fingers, let them bind,
And trust the touch you always find.
For storms may rage and trials descend
But none defeat the hand you lend.

The world breaks many, but never the one
Who learns to stand with hands of one.

Hey, little frog
on your pad in a pond
surveying your kingdom green
You don’t have a golden ball,
no princess came to call
and these lily pads are all you’ve seen
You’re just fine in your domain
and have no reason to complain
with your fine banquet of flies that teem
So you sit strong and alone
on your very own green throne —
just now swims up a queen

Part II: Atmosphere

Every cut
Every burn
Another remembrance of self harm.

I found faith
Not in words
Not in religion
I found faith in my heart

God was never on my side
But I forgave a long time ago
Screaming into the atmosphere

I let my fears go
I let my hatred die
Heaven was never in my sights
If I'm going to Hell
I'll go out with a bang

The memories are what have kept me going
I'm a soldier
I'm a fighter

I'm claiming my throne
I won't give up
I'll never give in.

Call me a medicine man,
and yeah, I'll be there for you sure,
dedicated to you only,
to help the one without a cure.

    Once I step inside your heart
    you'll begin to doze off,

and those shaky hands will be soothed
while letting your head rock to and fro; can't be helped.
You'd be my tiny little sleepyhead
holding that little dose in your palm

    and you'll soon wander off
    deep into the neverland of your own version,

forgetful of human senses:
the striking smell, the taste to savour,
the sound the music that is ever whimsical,
the bright light and the dim dark.

And I reckon you already like it
all surrounded by the forgetfulness
—the numbing sensations nullifying your will to rise,
and the pleasure finds shelter within you.

    Then in your dream
    you start to want me more,

    not knowing the impending consequences
    of forgetting all about yourself,

of drowning
further into the river
that we all call the sorrow,
and of falling faster and farther

until you know nowhere to return.
I call out "Wakey-wakey," then,
prying open your eyes and every doors
that'll lead you outside with haste

—the light shines upon your pupils
still drowned in tears,
bewildered, with your legs wobbling.
Yet you're no longer my sleepyhead anyway,

    so walk on, off with you,
    carry on with your stiff legs

    —though you pretty much look like
    you'll need a stick just to stand upright -

    and do come see me
    if you ever need me again.

I’m no longer a little pup.
In all aspects, I’ve grown up.
Self reliance is not a right to me.
It’s a requirement, what I have to be.

A reflection is shadow made of light.
I look at myself. “Who you trying to fight?“

You know he’s crooked cause his head is cocked.
It’s rebellion.
His past is in flames, he’s a hellion.
That’s why he don’t hear what they be tellin him.
He hears his own music.
He let’s it in, he grooves it.
It flows through his body when he moves it.
You can always be happy if you choose it.
Listen to the dope beats
and keep a couple close to your throne seat.
It’s emotion in wave form. There is no rawer art
or rarer reward. For if you truly listen
changes will start in the you-est you.

I was shocked too but I swear, it’s true.
All sorts of things will change you, if you let them.

Me, myself, and I

Life is like the sun
It goes up and down and around
Good days
and bad days
I trust myself and know my place
Outside of society
as it is a danger to all
I must think for myself
and not conform as they do
The world’s opinion is not my own
And thus need not be acknowledged
Like Galileo and Newton
I am misunderstood
but I know who I am
Fortune is my friend
and is with me
but I am all I need

"Stop yelling at me," I tell the walls,
as if they were the culprit.
Stop keeping time with my fingernails,
tracing squares in chalkboard wallpaper.
I have forgotten you.

If only you would forget me.

You trace lines on my skin,
Like a cartography of forgotten myth.

"Don't tell me what to think."
You don't own me.

"Don't tell me how to feel."
That is a priviledge you no longer possess.

"Leave me alone,
Old friend."

Leave me be.