I let you in, I let you see
the deepest, quietest parts of me.
I gave you gifts, both kind and rare,
laid out dark secrets, every care.

But shadows shift, and masks did fall,
your honeyed voice revealed it all.
You lied, you took, then spun the tale
to paint my kindness cold and pale.

So now the gates are locked up tight,
no open doors, no welcome light.
The hands that once gave, now hold fast,
a lesson learned, a love that passed.

No whispers now, no gentle plea—
the walls stand firm, protecting me.
For trust once shattered won’t return,
when some betrayals only burn.

Yet through the cracks, the stars still gleam,
soft reminders, distant dreams.
The lock remains, the scars run deep,
but love still lingers where it sleeps.

And should one come with steady hand,
who speaks in truth, who understands,
they’ll find the key, not forced, but free—
for walls aren’t meant for eternity

Growth is an ache, not a gentle stretch,
a breaking open, not a quiet bloom.
It is shedding skin that clings too tight,
the sting of air on what was once concealed.

You tell yourself to swallow it down,
to press the weight of feeling into silence,
as if strength is the absence of pain,
as if numbness is wisdom.

But the dam cracks.
A flood will always find its way,
rushing through the spaces you ignored,
drowning the quiet you mistook for peace.

You cannot rise while buried alive.
You must sit in the mess of yourself,
let the grief, the rage, the joy, the longing
unfold their lessons in your hands.

For to feel is to know,
and to know is to grow—
not in comfort, not in ease,
but in truth

They whispered that he was alone because he had to be,
that some creatures are too wild to stay,
too restless to belong.

But the wolf remembers…
the warmth of the fire,
the weight of a world that once welcomed him.
And he knows now: it wasn’t his wildness they feared,
but the way he saw through the shadows.

The wolf knows better.
The howl was never a warning,
never a call for chaos—
but a song for the lost,
a promise that no one walks alone.

So he left them in their silence,
turned his voice to the moon,
where the lonely still listen,
where the echoes do not twist—
but repeat the truth,
for those ready to hear it.

Time’s running out—
tick, tick, tick—
but I’m not chasing clocks,
I’m chasing purpose.

Dreams? We all got ‘em.
Big, small, loud, quiet—
and I ain’t here to compare.
You walk your road, I’ll walk mine.

Yeah, they laugh sometimes.
“Too big,” they say. “Too far.”
But I know the truth:
it’s not just the dream itself.
It’s the journey that shapes the masterpiece.

The mountain? Always growing.
The finish line? Always moving.
But I keep on going.
Because the masterpiece?
It ain’t the goal…it’s the grind.

And when at last my time is through,
when dusk has dimmed my final view,
I shall not mourn what lay ahead,
but cherish all the steps I tread.

I’ll smile upon the road behind,
the highs, the lows, the fight, the climb.
Not for the dream that led me on,
but for the soul it made me find.

Who holds the thread between us tight?
Who tugs the cord in dead of night?
Who pulls us back when steps are made,
To turn away, to let love fade?

Is it time, or fate, or something more?
A whisper scratched into the floor?
A song that plays when no one sings?
A touch that lingers without wings?

You pull, I pull, we slip, we stray,
Yet something never fades away.
A tether not of hand, but soul—
The pull of something we once called whole.

You know that feeling?
The weight of words unsaid,
of pages paused mid-sentence,
of stories that never found their end.

We left the ink to settle,
the lines still carved in quiet space.
Not erased, not spoken—
just waiting in the in-between.

You swore the tide never pulled you in,
that the fire never warmed your skin.
Yet echoes stay, they don’t erase—
some truths remain, though left unnamed.

Some moments slip like sand,
some ghosts refuse to fade.
And silence, though it speaks in whispers,
still knows the words we never said.

I don’t want silence, I don’t want space,
I want sticky fingers and a messy place.
I want tiny shoes lined up by the door,
Giggles and whispers and toys on the floor.

I want late-night cuddles, a toddler’s embrace,
A partner to love, to grow old face to face.
To sit on a porch swing, gray hair in the breeze,
Our grandkids all laughing, climbing our knees.

So where is this life? Is it waiting for me?
Or will I just dream it and let it go free?