The night hums softly, the world is still,
yet my mind runs where my heart won’t heal.
Streetlights flicker, the moon just stares,
but shadows whisper that no one cares.

I scroll through faces I used to know,
wonder if they miss me—probably no.
Messages typed but left unsent,
words too heavy, feelings bent.

The silence isn’t really mute,
it sings of dreams I can’t pursue.
Of doors that closed, of roads not walked,
of battles lost, of love uncaught.

And though the dawn is hours away,
I wonder if I’d beg it to stay.
Because another day just means one more—
where I still ache behind this door.

I see you in the places we once knew,
a glimpse of your shadow in passing view.
Your name lingers on my silent tongue,
a song unsung, forever young.

We walk the same streets, breathe the same air,
yet fate pretends we’re unaware.
A step too late, a turn too wide,
always reaching—never collide.

I hear your laughter in echoes dim,
like a melody lost within the wind.
Fingers stretch, but time won’t bend,
a story stuck with no real end.

We could meet, yet we stay apart,
two lost souls with tangled hearts.
So close—yet worlds away,
a touch we’ll never let replay.

Questions are vital,
Life thrives on questioning—
Yourself, others, the world.
Without questions, you cannot grow,
You cannot think,
For questions ignite thought,
And thought fuels change.

Yet, there are those in power,
Strong in might but fragile in mind,
Afraid of questions.
They silence voices,
Suppress bright minds,
Youthful minds,
Minds that dare to ask,
"Why?" and "What if?"

Across the epochs of history,
There have always been
The brave who question
And the fearful who evade.

Do not be afraid.
Raise your questions boldly.
For it is through questioning
That you challenge rigid thinking,
That you confront the immovable,
Even the most powerful.

Raise your voice,
And let your questions
Shape a better tomorrow.

The ocean feels vast and mysterious, doesn't it?
The sunset paints the sky in golden light.
The silence after a storm feels peaceful,
As the stars seem so distant tonight.

The world continues to turn,
The clouds drift lazily by,
The waves keep crashing on the shore,
As the moon looks lonely in the sky.

The flowers bloom in vibrant colors, don't they?
The mountains stand so tall and strong.
The world feels quiet in the nighttime,
As the wind whispers its gentle song.

The stars twinkle high above me,
The wind sings a melody,
And in the stillness of the night,
The world just keeps moving, endlessly.

You strike a matchstick
and name it hope—
watch the flame gnaw
its own tail, a hungry ouroboros.

Your hands tremble like cities
under siege.
The skyline cracks, a porcelain plate
held together by spider silk.

We are all archaeologists here,
digging through ash
for the bones of who we swore
we’d become.

Some nights, the moon is a pill
that won’t dissolve.
You swallow it anyway,
let its cold light pool in your ribs.

The world is a fever dream,
but listen—
even wildfires leave behind
soil thick with tomorrow.

So let your heart be a dandelion:
ugly, stubborn,
and impossibly
easy to love.

Sometimes, I get carried away by certain moments that keep me awake. But I think I see too much.

Sometimes, I feel that what makes me comfortable must be good. But in truth, I see too much.

Sometimes, I imagine I’ll always spend my time under a blue sky. But I see too much.

Now I realize that feelings and thoughts will never fully align, because the world will always change, even if everything seems fine at first. So, I need to stop and focus on looking far ahead.

This morning, I woke up at 4 a.m., sweating. I’d had a bad dream. I was in a car, speeding downhill, completely out of control. It was one of those steep, winding roads that twists sharply as it descends, each turn pulling me further into chaos. I couldn’t stop it. I think the dream reflects how I’ve been feeling about the world lately—like everything is spiraling out of control.
The world feels mad. It’s as if everything that once brought me peace and calm is on the verge of being wiped away. They don’t like people like me—fluid, free spirits. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for some to accept that there’s a world beyond what they know, just as I can understand their world. What’s so threatening about something different?
I feel fragile, vulnerable. I’m overwhelmed by what I hear every day—the noise, the chaos, the uncertainty. Am I overreacting, or am I sensing the darkness that’s about to unfold?

we write our stories with unsteady hands,
our fingers stained in ink from all the errors,
a silent witness to our hopes and terrors,
it will remember when the world forgets.

and if we make it through to tell the tale,
our voice may linger, but the words will perish,
so we disclose all of our hopes and terrors,
be it in darkness or the light of day.

anonymous or public, foes or friends,
bound, bruised and battling your inner devils,
you'll see yourselves in our hopes and terrors,
preserved in stories, written by our hands.