She stands like a tree in autumn’s embrace, Golden leaves falling, shattered in grace.
Each broken piece catches the light, A quiet beauty, fragile but bright.

Yet weren’t they lovelier when they were whole? Before the cold air whispered its toll?
A breath of frost, sharp and unkind, The ghost of her past still trailing behind.

The river hums with a story untold, Its waters deep, relentless, cold.
It sings of wounds she hides so well, A silent storm, a private hell.

She has friends, or so she claims, Yet loneliness calls her by name.
Her silence lingers, soft but strong, Like autumn days, both short and long.

But when the river’s wind takes flight, Rustling leaves in the dead of night, Her soul, so quiet, starts to scream— A soundless echo, lost in a dream.

She was never meant for autumn’s sorrow, She was meant for spring, for a brighter tomorrow.

always offered help,
never realizing that
i needed it most.

Freedom, they said, was for all,
But it became a privilege—
rationed, conditional.
Laws were written in the ink of fear,
Meant to bind us but never them.
Papers dictated our worth,
Time slots our movements.
For what felt like endless seasons,
My world shrank to walls and whispers.
A yard became my horizon,
A car my only escape.
Truth was silenced,
Questions outlawed.
They called it protection,
But it felt like exile.
The Constitution became fragile glass,
Shattering under the weight of hypocrisy.
Freedom was not free;
It was a cage lined with lies,
Its door held shut by fear.
I lost more than days—I lost trust.
The land of the free stood still,
Its anthem drowned in passive compliance.