#hopeindarkness
In a world of crumbling cities, we stand on the platform’s edge,
A train hums softly, bearing whispers, she says, “We must pledge.”
"The road ahead is dark," she breathes, "And this place offers no grace,"
She boards in haste, I'm left behind,
faceless foes as the shadows close in place.
With cold hands grasping tight, they hold me back with force,
The train is moving, heart is pounding, love’s a fleeting course.
But through the struggle, I break free, tearing through their hold,
I sprint to catch the fleeting train, heart burning, fierce and bold.
From car to car, I chase her voice, through walls of steel and gloom,
Her cry cuts through the silence, like the bloom of a flower’s doom.
“Where is he? Has he made it?” Her voice, a tremulous song,
And in that moment, I hear her call, where we both belong.
With joy, we meet, our arms entwined, the world feels whole once more,
She rests on my lap, our lips collide - relief, like never before.
In the depths of night, in a broken world, we find our stolen light,
Together, we are home again, love’s fire burning bright.
Together again, we are the same.
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 7:15 AM UTC
I.
Dreams carved in stone,
shattered like glass,
echoes of effort—
lost in the past.
II.
Steps I climbed,
only to fall,
hands outstretched,
no one at all.
III.
Pages of plans,
drenched in doubt,
words unwritten,
time ran out.
IV.
Bridges I built,
burnt by fate,
stood at the edge,
a moment too late.
V.
Eyes that searched
for a flicker of light,
but shadows danced
through endless night.
VI.
Yet within the ruins,
a whisper remains—
failure is written,
but so is change.
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 7:49 AM UTC
O My dear Mr. Moon!
You might not know this,
That whenever I glance up at the darkness of the night sky,
Your elegance moonlight provides me solace,
And hope for better days to come.
Your shine comes from the mighty Sun.
But you don't have to be the Sun dear.
Do you know that your scars make you so divine ?
You don't have to be perfect.
You have millions and billions of admirers you know?
Even if you're not a star,
You don't need to be.
Cause you are the moon!
The only moon,
That leads the way.
When I am lost,
In this world full of toils.
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 10:39 PM UTC
The cigarette burns low between my lips,
flickering like a dying star.
I have nothing—no job, no purpose,
just weary feet and a mind too loud.
Then I see him—
a man, old, bent by time,
struggling with a bag too heavy
for hands that once built dreams.
For a moment, I hesitate—
what can I offer when my own pockets are empty?
But hands are not meant just to take,
so I lift the weight from his shoulders,
feel its burden shift onto mine.
He looks up, eyes filled with something unspoken,
a silent gratitude heavier than gold.
No applause, no grand reward—
just the quiet knowing
that sometimes, heroes walk unseen.
I drop my cigarette,
watch it fade into the dust.
For the first time in a while,
I don’t feel empty.
I feel enough.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 1:39 AM UTC
_Crowded foresight_ —
thoughts stacked sky-high,
cluttered windows of a dreaming mind.
Out of mind,
out of sight…
yet somehow, I keep seeing
the better days of my life
skimming the edge
of a hopeful smile.
That smile —
soft, unspoken —
given with time,
drawn from deep thoughts
folded in silence.
. . .
Any life worth seeing —
any __better__ version of me —
is shaped by what I’m willing
to put light on.
So I
paint my
foresight with
fireflies and sunbeams,
hoping the dark
makes room
for the
light I
keep.
Jun 16, 2025
Jun 16, 2025 at 3:59 PM UTC
Plotting a course toward destiny isn’t as romantic as it sounds.
Some days, I feel like I’m walking on half-baked schemes rather
than solid plans—improvising hope on cracked pavement.
There’s a “field of dreams,” sure, but not the kind where the
grass is greener. Instead, it’s overrun with the weeds of
disappointment—unwelcome thoughts I have to keep plucking
from my mind before they take root. As I try to find cover under
the so-called tree of life, but even its shade feels uncomfortable.
_Too warm. Too uncertain._ And rest doesn't come so easy when
your thoughts are always so heavy.
And tell me—if someone else’s life came with a perfect promo,
_polished_ and _so promising_, would you still blame me for
my __FOMO__? I mean, what if their dream life is the one I was
supposed to live? What if I just missed the sign-up link? To catch
myself trying to live out the picture of someone else’s success,
because this life of mine? It’s painfully __YOLO__. And I try to
keep my horses steady, but envy isn’t exactly a stable creature.
It wears me down, day by day, like I’m stitched together by
Polo—fashionable on the outside, but worn-out underneath.
Failure, though? Now that’s the real villain. It doesn’t just sting—
it lingers, like emotional __PTSD__. It makes you flinch at the idea
of trying again, as if effort itself is a pointless punishment.
And fingers? Oh, fingers love to point—especially at people
who haven’t gotten far. But when it comes time to point out
themselves, they suddenly feel too short.
Still, I keep my fingers crossed, quietly hopeful I might achieve
something real—_something I truly want as a need_. It’s a bright
hope, exhausting in its intensity. But even in darkness, there’s
always the flicker of a new light waiting to be found.
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 5:49 PM UTC
__I. Fracture__ (_The Splintering_)
Divorce in my eyes— not just of lovers,
but of trust split cleanly in two. It’s a quiet
betrayal, where belief in others fractures
like glass in morning frost. The break isn't loud—
It’s slow, and it lingers like silence in a room
that once held laughter.
________________________________________
__II. Hope__ (_The Gaze Upward_)
Still, beneath the applause of stars,
I offer my belief in myself— a trembling gift
to their gleaming, ancient eyes. May my resilience
Be a constellation they name, not out of pity,
but awe. I crave mesmerizing remarks, spoken with
love—not just spoken of love— if only they knew
how to spell the word without misspelling it in action.
________________________________________
__III. Dust__ (_The Reckoning_)
Like mystic dust on the untouched virtues of time,
I’ve seen dreams— soiled, scattered, folded into
the pockets of regret. Not just mine. Many.
The world has walked through the fields of hope
with muddy boots. And now, in my dirt eyes,
I carry the stains— not of sin, but of seeing too
much and still refusing to look away.
Jun 2, 2025
Jun 2, 2025 at 2:36 PM UTC
Turn off the lights — I’m fighting myself in the dark.
My skin, a caressing sun; roses fall and kiss me
with lip-shaped petals, trying to open me wide.
But they’ll censor you — they’ll look away, so you
don’t shine as bright as you are.
And me? I pluck myself from a group of self-doubts.
At the pace of this age, I slow, though youth fast-feeds
through my hands, trying to unearth green shoots
of heaven’s cheer. A chosen emotion rises — as if my
heart readies itself for a rapture. Earthen hands *****
out dreams from soil. To be called a ***** — or to *****
others? _What a question to be_.
As I’m plotting in the potting shed, where we shared
hope like dew-struck grass. We watered our dreams
with tears, and have felt baptized in fear. Shaking daily
at the grip of then —as if winter left its bare bones in my
hands. But I’m not ready to net a coy smile, not when my
butterfly net carries extra holes.
As all my hopes lie on the ground, seeds waiting to be
buried in the dark —waiting to grow. The lights of faith
are shut. And must I wait for fireworks to explode across
my sky again, like next year’s celebrations? But I won’t
shut my eyes this time. Yet I’ll stay open, just in case
tomorrow decides to find me first.
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 4:33 PM UTC
In the quiet of the night, when darkness whispers near, A battle rages deep within, unseen by those who care. The shadows speak of ending, of finding sweet release, Yet in my heart, a voice resounds, a plea for inner peace.
Courage isn’t loud, it doesn’t always roar, Sometimes it’s a whisper, a knock upon my door. A gentle push to stay, to see another day, To find the strength within me, to keep the dark at bay.
Each morning is a victory, each breath a hard-won fight, In the face of haunting thoughts, I seek the smallest light. Resilience grows in silence, in battles fought alone, A testament to strength, in moments rarely shown.
I talk to my reflection, to the eyes that bear the pain, Reminding them of worth, of what there is to gain. “You are more than shadows, more than darkened skies, You hold a world of purpose, within those tear-streaked eyes.”
The road is often lonely, the climb steep and long, Yet within my soul, a melody, a half-remembered song. A song of hope and future, of dreams yet to be, A promise of the beauty, in what my life can be.
When thoughts of ending surface, when despair takes its hold, I summon up my courage, let my inner strength unfold. For every tear that’s fallen, for every silent scream, I anchor to the knowledge, that life is worth the dream.
The strength to stay is quiet, it’s found in every breath, In choosing life and love, in stepping back from death. It’s in the daily struggle, the moments of reprieve, In finding joy in small things, in learning to believe.
I find my worth in kindness, in love I give and share, In the laughter of a friend, in moments free of care. My purpose is in living, in taking one more stride, In knowing I am valued, with nothing left to hide.
So here’s to all the warriors, who fight the silent fight, Who choose to stay each day, who seek the healing light. For in the act of staying, a courage fierce and true, We find our strength within us, and life begins anew.
The strength to stay is powerful, a force that’s deep and strong, It’s in the heart’s resilience, in finding where we belong. With each step taken forward, with every new day’s start, We build a life worth living, with courage in our heart.
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 10:30 AM UTC
Chance or Fate
Turn one way—
and life spills over itself.
Frogs break water,
rabbits stitch the grass,
cows call the morning in.
Hands reach easy—
berries, apples,
sweetness without asking.
Children run light-footed,
laughter carried on green air,
parents watching—full.
This is the promise,
they say.
This is how it was meant.
***
Turn the corner—
and colour falls away.
Grey ground.
Wood and plastic walls
that do not keep the cold out.
Children cry—not playing now,
but empty.
Mothers count nothing.
Fathers stare at tomorrow
like a threat.
Crows speak here.
Wolves answer.
Bins become harvest.
***
Same earth.
Same sky.
No child chooses
where they arrive.
Light—
or shadow.
Tell me—
is it chance,
or something written
before breath begins?
***
Still—
somewhere between
a hand might reach.
Not to question why—
but to carry
a small piece of light
into the dark.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 4:20 AM UTC