I’m not sure why I feel bad,
but I do.
A shy human,
I fear that my silence will speak louder
than my heart ever could.

I’m not ignoring those who liked,
loved, commented, reposted—
I see you, I do,
but my shyness keeps me
from finding the right words.

I should thank them,
but I’m stuck,
swallowed by my own reluctance.

I’ve been here before,
hesitant to share what’s not perfect,
scared it won’t fit the mold,
so I keep it hidden,
a secret between me and the page.

It’s easier to just press ‘like’,
to let my words stay trapped behind the screen,
than to find the right ones
that feel big enough to match their kindness.

I could message them, privately,
but that feels worse,
more intimate in its awkwardness,
and I’d only wish I could say it better
where they all could see.

So here I am,
apologizing in silence,
for all the gratitude
that never quite makes it out.

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.

See me for me,
not who you want me to be.
See my cracks,
don’t consider them as lack.
See me.
See the dreams of how I want to be.
Build with me.
Help me to achieve.
Look at me.
See my flaws.
Accept them as more than loss.
See me for me.
Appreciate me as me.
See my imperfections as a part of me,
and not a mistake in me.
See me for me.
Help me rearrange the ick in me.
Realize the pain in me is not a crutch to me.
Trust in me.
Don’t judge me for things ****** upon me.
Just please-
love me-
as I am-
for me-
not an image of me.

They told us tears were trouble,
a crack in the mask,
a plea for attention,
a sign we weren’t strong enough—
so we swallowed storms whole,
let the thunder shake inside our chests,
never daring to let it pour.

They taught girls that crying was dramatic,
a script rewritten to seem small,
a fault in the fabric of being “too much.”
They told boys it made them weak,
that strength was silence,
that pain should be caged behind quiet eyes.

But tears are not weakness.
They are rivers that carry the weight,
a language of the soul
when words fail to hold what aches.
They do not make you less,
only more—
more human, more real, more free.

So cry if you need to.
Let it fall like rain on thirsty ground,
and know—
I will never see you any differently.

To be loved by me  
is like being held underwater  
and expected to learn how to breathe.  

I don’t feel like I’m from here—  
from this planet.  
To love me is inhuman.  

I’m a creature of the night.  
Don’t get too close,  
or you might cause me a fright.  
But if you get just close enough,  
we can have conversations  
that last all night.  

To be loved by me  
is like being drowned…

You lose yourself in me.  
I lose myself in you.  
It’s not just a pattern—  
it’s painted in the stars above,  
the ground below.  
You know we’ve all seen this show.  

I either make landfall  
like a hurricane,  
or like the rain  
that was supposed to come today  
but never bothered to show its face.  

To be loved by me  
is like being drowned…

It’s not that I’m unlovable…  
It’s that I might be intoxicating.  
And you know how it goes  
with toxic things:  
you either can’t put them down,  
or you know better  
than to ever pick them up.  

To be loved by me  
is like being drowned…

But what if I’ve never been those extremes?  
What if that’s just how you’ve chosen to see me?  
What if loving me is not like drowning?  
What if I’ve just been watering your seeds?  
What if we look between the stars and the ground?  

To be loved by me
Is like being drowned?

Is there a different story to be found—  
waiting to be painted  
by someone who can see  
both the stars above  
and the roots beneath the tree?

They tell him he is not a flower,
not soft, not meant to sway.
A man must stand like oak and iron,
unbending in the storm’s display.

But even mountains crack with time,
and rivers carve through stone.
Still, he tucks his petals inward,
pretending he is made of bone.

He’s taught that thorns are armor,
that roots must never show,
that to bloom is to be broken,
that to weep is to let go.

But flowers starved of rain will wither,
left to shrivel in the heat.
And men, too, will turn to silence,
fearing softness makes them weak.

So let them bloom, let them bend,
let them speak their pain in sight.
For a flower wilts not from the wind,
but from the absence of its light.

I often speak in silence,
when words are too loud,
and the world around me feels
like too much,
a symphony of voices I can't tune out.

"You’re more than you know,"
you said.
But the mirror doesn’t see
what I’ve hidden in the corners
of my own heart—
the fear,
the longing,
the doubts that won’t stay quiet.

“I miss you,”
you whispered,
and it felt like a promise
I could barely hold onto
but still wanted to.
How do you love something
you don’t believe you deserve?

I wear a mask,
my smile is too practiced,
my laughter just a little too loud
to drown out the questions,
the insecurities.
“You’re everything I could have wished for,”
but what does that mean
when I am still learning
how to be enough for myself?

In the quiet, I wonder
if I could ever be
the girl you see me as,
so strong,
so sweet,
yet I break in places
no one can see.

“Take my hand,” you said,
but I’m afraid my own hands are shaking.
How do I give you the world
when I am still trying
to understand it myself?

“You’re breathtakingly amazing,”
but I wonder if you see
the cracks where I am still
a little girl,
waiting for someone to tell me
it’s okay to be both beautiful and broken.

“I miss you even after just a few hours apart,”
and maybe,
just maybe,
this time,
the love I feel
can be enough
to fill the spaces I’ve let empty for so long.

i seek the shadows that comfort me
from the shame of vulnerability.
i can’t feel the sorrow and the grief of loss
under the day’s brightness.

as if the light acts as a dam,
preventing the next great flood from god.
under hecate’s protection, i am cloaked,
hidden from others (and from my own eyes).

when i was young, my parents taught me
that emotions are not for boys.
emotions were like barbies -
and toying with either is an act of shame.

one time i was desperate and needed
the comfort that only parents can provide.
i cried in front of my mother, she stopped me and said,
“i’ll give you something to cry about.”

so i learned to hide under the blankets.
i let it all go - stifling the sobbing whimpers.
afraid to be caught, afraid to be punished,
afraid of another humiliating lecture.

i wrap my arms around my hollowness,
holding the sheets closeby.
alone, finding solace within.
fighting my battles on my own.

here in the darkness, i bathe in my own vulnerability.
gasping for hope in between sobs.
tonight - there will be a baptism.
tomorrow - i will be renewed.

I challenge you to broaden your views
If you are one who is adversarial,
But should you shun competition
I welcome you to engage in cooperation.
That we may learn from each other,
Sharing our personal perspectives.
If I had ventured to say
That there is no such sturdier foundation
From which upon to build on,
Would you call me crazy?
Perhaps, in a pitiful way,
You would refer to me
As an optimist
Or as daydreaming & faraway.
It's just not realistic, not here or today.
Cooler heads do not prevail,
Safety leveraged over risk is gay,
Precaution is something for *******.
What bullish nonsense and pigheadedness,
Are you not freely disposed toward exercising
Those of your most sacred rights & liberties?
Is too heavy the weight of vulnerability?

I wanna be that girl,  
the girl who was loved as a child,  
the girl who'll be remembered,  
the girl who was cared for,  
the girl who was never left alone.  

I wanna be the laughter in the room,  
the warmth in every touch,  
the calm in the storm,  
the one who gave and received love,  
the one whose heart was always held.    

I wanna be that girl,  
the girl who learned to heal,  
the girl who chose to shine,  
the girl who loved herself,  
and left her mark on time.