Hey,
I read what you wrote.
And I want you to know—
Every word you sent out…
they weren’t just paragraphs.
They were proof that you were alive.
That even in your hardest moments, you still chose to feel.
And that’s something brave people do.

I know it might not have felt like it at the time.
Maybe you thought you were being too much,
too vulnerable,
too open.

But can I tell you something?
There’s nothing “too much” about being human.

You wrote when you loved.
You wrote when you were breaking.
You wrote when you had nothing else left but your own honesty.
And that’s not weakness.
That’s how you kept yourself from fading out completely.

So thank you.
For every message you sent into the void.
For every “I’m trying”
and even every “I give up.”
Because every single one was you choosing expression over silence.

And now?
Now you’re here.
Still breathing.
Still writing.
Still surviving in your own quiet, relentless way.

One day, you’ll look back and see—
those paragraphs weren’t cries for help.
They were stepping stones.
Each one taking you closer to the version of you who’s healed,
who’s glowing,
who made it.

And when you get there—
you’ll read those words again,
not with regret,
but with pride.

Because even when life didn’t hold you gently,
you still held onto yourself.

That’s not weakness.
That’s strength.
And it’s still with you.
Even now.

So don’t stop writing.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if no one replies.

Because sometimes… the most important person who needs to hear you
is you.

I’ve lost the art of praying for love;
Instead, I’m constantly praying for cause
Cause what’s the point of a lover’s love,
Without it coming alongside a real cause?

Cause you may say you love me
Professing your love with all your heart –
But in return; you go, and break my heart
Being the cause to my unstable mental state,
Being less of a state – more of a mental break.

So, please, apply your brakes, before you
Lay your heart bare before me – dreading
The thought of chronicling you as one of
My many, many mistakes; as your pretend
Love, served as that very cause.

i have found that when i feel overwhelmed i tend to distance myself from the situation. well, hold on, i take that back. when i feel an emotion that overwhelms me i distract myself from it, try as hard as i can to ignore it. until i can't, that's when i have to go, i have to find a place to disappear. a place i can sit, think, and feel for a moment until i shove that feeling back down my throat again. i never know when or if it will come back up, but when it does it means i have to leave.

I want a device that tells me all the thoughts I forgot in a day.
To revisit all the memories I saw
or to get back to tasks I said I would get to
It would be fun to see the progress of what I thought
and how the environment changes that
I could even revisit all the great thoughts that made me happy

I forget so much
This new device might get more screen time than my phone
It could save you so much time and energy

But maybe its worth it to forget
Maybe it clears room for new thoughts to make me happy
Maybe the thoughts I think are satisfied with their one life
Or maybe my mind is just a pitstop those thoughts make
before heading to the next head

Id love to remember how I wanted to end this poem though

Dear sky,
I love the color you're wearing today. It makes me feel light-headed. How is it that every shade you wear adorns you and makes me fall in love?
Yesterday it was a very soft blue and now its more purple and I know I'm limited in the names of shades but
I hope someday you'll teach me what you call each shade between purple and blue and tell me what each one means.
I'll continue to admire you from here, i hope you look at me sometime and know how i love all of you
Love,
January

In amongst this rubble we met.
I suffer and you suffer and yet through the harsh words we call our own, one can find the truth.
We are at school, we are at home, yet nowhere at all.
Stuck in the inbetween.
Who are we to live such lives?
Are we stars that sit and twinkle all our lives before fading away into darkness?
Or do we fly across the sky in a bright flare, burning and too bright to last.
Either way, we are space junk… burning up and destined for endless darkness.
Quick.
Choose your life.
Know who you are.  
Work hard, and then work even harder.
Who are they to give us a choice?
What difference would it make?
We are no one compared to the glory of Jesus, yet He says we are enough.
Does that make us worthy of being?
Does that give us an excuse to patch together lies and weave a net across the sea?
The fish we would catch would have brilliant blue scales and yellow fins.
They would flip around on the deck of our boat and instead of suffering they die.
Their spirit moving on to the next dimension.
How fun this next dimension must be to accommodate these funks and quirks.
Imagine.
A place where you can eat giraffe spots and deep-fried zebra stripes.
Who gave us such an imagination to be able to ponder such wild concepts?
Yet within the maze of life we tackle through the loads of homework and give excuses when overwhelmed.
The piles build up and we create little houses within the pages.
In the houses live little people with little problems and little lives.
They have little gardens and say little hellos to other little people.
Do they look at us and think we are strange?
Do their hearts rip and tear when they hear of our names and how little they mean?
Why should we give prejudice to ducklings when the world agrees that yellow *****?
Can we not have one thing that makes sense?
Can we have one thing that can be without exceptions?
That is all I ask in this crowded chaotic chapter in my life.
I look to the sky each day and revel in the endless blues that seem to go on forever, yet still encompass us tightly.
Words and words and words.

The shadows gaze silently, cloaking me in divorce clothes
–splitting my mind in two. Nobody is innocent; for even
in the innocent eyes of a child, they must grow up –
Certainly no exception to this rule. At times, I find myself
draining the essence of my dreams, spiralling into a vortex
of procrastination, throwing my efforts down the drain.

Life is a canvas, and the art of existence is wrought with
suffering – the masterpiece of my story will be a portrait
painted with my blood, sweat, and tears, left as a haunting
Stain.

Yet, how we cast judgment upon the suicidal for not being
brave– praising the brave for flirting with the precipice of
risking their lives. As a true master of their courage; are
those who confront their deepest fears and still strive to
soar beyond them.

Still, I’ll walk through night as a strange person follows me;
only to discover that the shadows watching silently are
merely the echoes of my own regrets.

Asking myself where do I fall in people's eyes
–brave or suicidal...