#personaljourney
Dona’s thick, heavy glasses pull the world into place,
not perfect, but clear enough to read every face.
They steady her steps as she walks through the day,
help her know who is waving from far away.
Street lights streak outward in shimmering trails,
edges stay soft as if wrapped in veils.
Each frame, each lens, a shield she wears,
against a world slowly vanishing in air.
They carry her forward through each passing year,
while her vision blurs more, a truth she once feared.
Doctors said time would steady the fray,
but time only quietly took more away.
Dona listens for footsteps that look fuzzy at first,
voices drifting toward her with details dispersed.
Each sound demands shape in a single heartbeat,
a puzzle she can’t solve in that fleeting beat.
Yet birdsongs break brighter, her children’s voices ring warm,
her husband’s voice steadies her through every storm.
Vibrations rise from music, feet, and paws—
and scents bloom bold, mapping the world without pause.
Now, as she ages, she can no longer pretend,
the blur is not creeping from bend to bend.
For when she sets her glasses down at her side,
the world heaves open in a luminous tide—
Not loss, but a masterpiece vast and alive,
a watercolor realm where all colors survive.
Every building, every face, every flicker of light,
unravels in waves, a living spectacle bright.
Brushstrokes swell thick in voluminous sweeps,
all swaying together like fields stirred in sleep.
She can’t tell who’s who or what shapes are faux,
yet she stands in awe of her secret Van Gogh.
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 9:35 AM UTC
Can’t hold onto anyone’s time—
their life is out of your hands.
But still, we all take these
steps of being so etched in
somebody’s memory—
like footprints in the sand.
I keep counting all the time I
tried to hold onto the past,
without a watch in my hand.
Watch the moment pass—
_tense_, sinister in tenacity.
A voracious hour—
feeding off what I didn’t say,
what I left behind.
Art quietly buried in my mind.
And all those things I thought
were gone— they love to
reappear as a new regret.
Still transparent. Still off-putting.
But put off those mistakes—
and put on the lessons.
Be beautiful in your time.
Not perfect. _Just worth building_.
They’ll write it down— the inspiring
story of how you rose,
even when time kept slipping
through your hands.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 12:55 PM UTC
In my eyes—wide shut—
I rearrange the scattered pieces, trying
to build a better version of myself from
what once felt like a creature. I frame
my thoughts to get a clearer picture,
decorating the past in shades that turn
away from mistakes, and painting the
rest with the soft light of my achievements.
Time drifts like dust—
blown apart in fragments. And I wonder
if anyone has ever truly been put together
perfectly. Even the greatest successors were
once victims, parts of themselves quietly missing.
To be complete is to keep finding yourself
again—to return, again and again, to the
reason you began. I stay committed to the
foundation of a dream, building it day by
day from these few, fragile pieces.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 12:24 PM UTC
There’s no point in searching for it,
we’ll find it one day, understood.
We must understand ourselves,
so that we can be who we are.
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
Sleepless, the days stretch long and wide,
A distant verity softly wakes.
For moments bright, still far away.
They live within me, hidden deep inside.
I wonder, was that me I saw?
Who was I, was it me?
Mistakes I thought were right,
Yet I wait, unsure of why.
Is it love I'm waiting for?
A better self, hidden in the dark?
Loving even when it’s hard,
Alone, lost in quiet thoughts.
In a room, I drift and sigh,
Chasing fleeting moments by.
Longing deep, I fall, undone,
Reaching for love, hard-won.
A castle rises on a hill,
In my mind, roses bloom still.
A beautiful image I once knew.
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 5:12 PM UTC
Sometimes I love my reflection.
Other times, he's just a bad friend—fixing his lips like he's about to interrupt me before I get my thought out good.
When I stop speaking, so does he.
What do you expect? He's me. Shit.
In truth, the bills are paid, and all current business is handled. But something is missing. It’s obvious. He just looks and shakes his head—my reflection.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't care.
I've gotten used to the silence that follows me. It's peaceful.
When I make it home after a long day, if I touch something, I know where it is.
If I cook something, I know there's more, even if I don't eat it all.
He sits back and watches all of this.
My reflection. Half the time, I pay him no mind. Sometimes, it's better that way.
But sometimes, I wouldn't mind a bit of noise
Dec 25, 2024
Dec 25, 2024 at 3:34 AM UTC