Ironic, isn’t it,
To be seen by so many,
Eyes upon your every move,
A window to the world,
Yet a door locked shut.

A false sense of connection,
More friends than ever before,
Likes that flood your screen,
But how many really know
The you behind the mask?

Fingers swipe, messages blur,
An endless stream of faces,
Yet in the quiet moments,
Who remains?
Who hears the whispers of your soul?

So hold to hope, and trust the few,
Who see the world beyond the view,
For in their hearts, you’ll find a place,
Of genuine warmth, a true embrace.

Why do we build up all the good things,
Just to knock them right back down?
Why craft a throne of fragile dreams,
Then cast away the crown?

Why sculpt with care a world of light,
Then drape it in despair?
Why light the flame that warms the night,
Only to leave it bare?

Are we the storm that shakes the bridge,
The tide that swallows sand?
Or is it fear that tips the scales,
Unsteady in our hands?

Perhaps destruction feels like power,
A way to hide the ache.
Or we rebuild because we hope,
Despite each fall — we wake.

For every ruin holds a seed,
Each crumble tells a tale.
And maybe, in this rise and fall,
We learn we’re meant to fail.

To fail, rebuild, and fail again,
Until the truth shines through:
That building up is worth the fall,
For growth ignites anew.

Through the fields
Where mountains rise
My soul, it heals
Beneath wide skies

Look at you, towering high,
Rooted deep beneath the sky.
Ancient limbs, your secrets told,
Whispering tales as years unfold.