I stand amidst the storm, hands tied in dread,  
The winds of fate howl, silent tears I shed.  
My cries are swallowed by the night’s abyss,  
As shadows mock my yearning for solace.  

Every heartbeat echoes with futile despair,  
A puppet on strings, suspended in the air.  
The world spins, relentless, without my say,  
A dance of destiny, where I’ve lost my way.  

Chains of circumstance tighten ‘round my soul,  
Ambitions shattered, beyond my control.  
In this abyss, I grasp at fading light,  
But hope’s a phantom, elusive in the night.  

Dreams once vivid now crumble to dust,  
Promises broken, in shadows they rust.  
I reach out for change, my fingers grasp air,  
An emptiness that whispers, "Life’s unfair."  

In silent rooms, I scream without a sound,  
A prisoner to fate, eternally bound.  
The weight of helplessness, a crushing wave,  
Drowns my spirit in its relentless grave.  

I fight against the tide, but my strength wanes,  
The battle within, lost in invisible chains.  
No solace in sight, no guiding star above,  
Just an endless night devoid of love.  

In the mirror, a stranger stares back at me,  
Eyes hollow, void of the dreams they used to see.  
A reflection of a life spiraling down,  
Where the crown of triumph is a thorny crown.  

Powerless, I crumble, a castle of sand,  
Washed away by life’s unyielding hand.  
In the depths of despair, I silently weep,  
For a time when my soul was mine to keep.  

But now I am lost, adrift in sorrow’s sea,  
Powerless, a shadow of who I used to be.  
In this daunting silence, I find no rest,  
A soul crushed by fate, forever oppressed.

I want to forgive.
I’ve whispered those words in the quiet of my mind
so many times,
as though saying them enough
could make them true.

But the weight of it is heavy—
too heavy for my trembling hands.
Their words still echo in the hollow places of me,
their actions carved into my skin,
not visible but etched deep.
And every time I reach for forgiveness,
it slips through my fingers
like trying to hold water in a clenched fist.

They tell me forgiveness is freedom.
Not for them,
but for me.
That it’s the key to my peace,
a way to loosen the grip
their memory has on my soul.
I want to believe them.
I need to.

But how do I let go of pain
that clings like a second skin?
How do I quiet the questions that rage in me—
Why did they? How could they?
Why wasn’t I enough?

And then there’s Him.
The one who forgives so effortlessly,
so completely,
it leaves me in awe.
I look at my scars
and think of the weight He carries—
my failures, my faults,
all the times I’ve been the one to hurt,
to break,
to leave marks on others.
And yet,
He forgives me still.

How does He do it?
How does He look at the mess of me
and call me redeemed?
It baffles me,
it humbles me,
and in my better moments,
it gives me hope.

If He can forgive,
then maybe I can too.
Maybe not today,
not yet,
but one day,
when the ache isn’t so sharp
and the anger isn’t so loud.

Forgiveness isn’t easy,
it’s a battle I fight with myself
every day.
But I know this much—
I owe it to myself to try.
Not for them,
never for them.
But for me.

And so, I’ll keep praying,
keep asking for the strength I don’t have yet.
I’ll remind myself of His grace
every time I falter,
every time I wonder if it’s worth it.

One day,
when the time is right,
I’ll unclench my fist,
let go of the weight,
and forgive.
Not because it’s easy,
but because it’s necessary.

I don’t know when it happened,
or how—
you went from a friend
to something more,
a sister I never asked for
but somehow always needed.
And now, standing here,
thinking this could be the last time
we share this space,
these laughs,
these stupid jokes,
it feels… bittersweet.

Three years.
Three whole years—
gone in what feels like three seconds.
How did we even start?
Oh, right—
a rivalry, or something like it.
It’s comical, really.
I still laugh when I think about
how we were ready to outdo,
outshine, out-everything each other,
and somehow, we ended up here.
Not rivals. Not even friends.
But family.

You’ve always been the kind one,
the funny one,
the weird one.
(Yeah, I said it—don’t even try to deny it.)
But also the sensitive, honest one,
the one who could light up my world
with just a few words—
kind, hopeful,
like you believed in me
when I couldn’t even believe in myself.

Your patience—
where did you get so much of it?
And why did you waste it on me?
(Seriously, I was annoying as hell.
Don’t argue—you know it’s true.)
But still, you stuck around.
Through my stubbornness, my chaos,
my everything.
And I wonder why,
but not today.
Today, I just want to say thank you.

These three years
feel like a blur now,
a whirlwind of memories,
from silly arguments
to deep, late-night talks
about life and what comes next.
And now it’s here—
the “next.”
The part where we go our separate ways,
face the world alone,
meet new people,
find new places,
take on challenges we can’t even imagine yet.

And I know you’ll be fine.
Scratch that—you’ll be amazing.
You’re strong, stubborn,
brilliant in ways you don’t even see yet.
(Yeah, yeah, roll your eyes—
but you know I’m right.
You’re just too stubborn to admit it, as always.)
I’m proud of you.
So proud it hurts,
but in the best way.

You’ve become
this incredible, beautiful woman
who’s going to do great things.
I know it.
Even if you don’t believe it yet,
you will—someday.
And when you do,
just remember
I told you so.

I wish I’d shown you more—
how much you mean to me,
how deeply I care.
But what’s done is done, right?
(No need to get all dramatic about it, geez.)
Still,
I love you.
I hope you know that,
even if I didn’t say it enough.

This feels like the end of a story—
our story.
But maybe it’s just the beginning
of a new chapter.
I like to think of it that way—
like one of those books
where the story ends,
but years later,
there’s a reunion,
a warm epilogue,
a happily-ever-after.
I like that thought—
two weirdos meeting again,
years from now,
with new stories to tell.

So, don’t be sad.
Be happy.
This is just a “see you later.”
Our story might be ending here,
but someday,
when the time is right,
our paths will cross again.
And when they do,
it’ll be one hell of a story.

If trees could talk,
we’d hear them in the whispers of leaves
that quiver like voices under a night sky,
their secrets murmuring on the wind.
We’d feel their slow, patient cadence
drift through the earth, the deep roots
reaching into histories buried and forgotten,
holding stories we pass each day without seeing.

They live quiet lives, these trees,
appearing simple, still—
but have you seen their scars?
The lightning marks that sear trunks,
the broken branches mended by time,
the rings hidden within, each a silent count
of storms endured, winters survived.
If trees could talk, would they tell us
how pain has a way of marking everything
it touches, even as it strengthens?

We think them still and sturdy,
but they are travelers too,
their leaves journeying with each season,
falling, scattering, vanishing—
only to return again, green and new,
a cycle of loss they know well,
as natural as breathing.
How much are we like them,
stuck in the ebb and flow,
shedding parts of ourselves we thought
we needed only to be reborn, different,
yet somehow the same?

They suffer in silence,
yet they stand, as we do—
anchored against tempests and drought,
bearing what they cannot change.
They lean into the light, stretch toward the sun,
like we reach for hope, for something to hold onto
when the ground feels unstable.
They grow slow, but they grow,
never rushing the process,
just letting time work its quiet magic
through bark and branches,
through every fiber that knows
some things only time can heal.

And like us, they’re often unseen,
overlooked in the noise of our days,
background to lives rushing past.
But if you stopped—just for a moment—
and felt the rough texture of bark,
listened to the rustle of leaves,
could you hear yourself in them?
The unspoken resilience, the quiet patience,
the scars that mark you as much as they mend?

People are like trees,
both good and bad,
rooted yet reaching, scarred yet standing.
They bear witness to our stories,
their silent presence reminding us
we are not alone in our struggles,
nor are we separate from the world
we so often take for granted.

So when you walk by,
hear them if you can—
the hidden language of trees,
the way they suffer, heal, and grow,
the way they endure in shadows and sun,
showing us, wordlessly,
what it means to live,
to be both frail and unbreakable,
to belong to something larger,
even when no one notices.

And maybe,
in their silence,
you’ll find a voice
of your own.

We are the fractured generation,
heartbroken, half-alive,
dragging shadows of what we once were.
Damaged souls, bruised hearts,
each scar a story we wish we could forget—
of nights spent drowning in silence,
of mornings heavy with invisible chains.

We carry the weight of too much,
heirlooms of trauma passed down like curses,
relationships that unraveled us,
memories that cling like burrs to skin.
And yet, somehow, we fight—
hoping, praying,
aching to be whole,
to be free.

Free from the shackles of what was,
from the guilt that gnaws at our joy,
the shame that smothers our laughter.
We long to breathe without breaking,
to feel happiness without questioning
if we deserve it.

I see it in us—
this yearning for warmth,
for love that doesn’t wound,
for acceptance that feels real.
But before we seek the light in others,
we must dare to find it in ourselves.

And God, how hard that is.
To sit with the emptiness,
to fight the storm inside,
to believe there is a flicker of good
in the ruins of who we are.
We try, but it feels like too much.
We stumble, we sink, we shatter again.

But I learned something in the breaking.
I learned to let go.
Not into the void,
but into His hands.
It was the hardest thing I’ve done—
to give Him the weight
I thought I had to carry alone.
But in doing so, I found
a breath I hadn’t taken in years.

Peace doesn’t come in a flood,
but in the quiet moments
when I remember I’m not unworthy.
Joy doesn’t erupt,
but grows slowly, tenderly,
like a seed breaking through the cracks.

I’m not there yet,
but I’m lighter than I was.
And I hope—
no, I pray—
that you find Him too.
That you give Him your heavy,
your broken, your bruised.
Even if you feel unworthy,
He says you are not.

And one day, we’ll breathe easily.
We’ll laugh without hesitation,
love without fear,
live from within,
not just on the outside.
One day, we’ll finally
be alive.

I carried shadows, dense as night,
through hollow streets of quiet pain.
No light, no shape, no depth or day,
just a blank and endless ache.
I drifted—lost in the gray,
tired of hope, sick of longing,
too weary to wish for another way.

In my hands, the weight of years—
every fault, every tear—
held tight, till it became a part of me,
a second skin, a burdened heart.
I thought this was life:
a slow fade,
an unmarked grave.

But today, something called,
soft as dawn, sharp as truth.
A small voice—maybe my own—
whispered of more, dared to say:
You don’t have to stay here.
And for once, I listened,
leaned in close.

With trembling hands, I reached for light,
not knowing if I’d deserve its warmth.
The step was heavy, a mountain move,
but still I took it,
trusting in things unseen,
in a love I hadn’t earned,
a grace I’d long denied.

It feels like a freefall, yet grounded,
like stepping into air but finding earth,
and I wonder:
can I be loved like this,
found whole from broken parts?
Can I let go, hands wide open,
of the burdens I made my own?

I’m afraid, but somehow, that’s fine—
I am carried, lifted high,
by a strength not mine.
And it terrifies me, this boundless peace,
the way my soul begins to breathe,
feeling lighter, every layer shed,
every shadow given up and left behind.

So I walk on, step by step,
into this unknown brightness.
It’s hard—yes, harder than I’d dreamed,
and I stumble, thinking of turning back.
But even as the doubts rise,
I know this is my path,
a promise kept, a fire fed.

Here, in the light, I’ll stand—
fragile, unsure, but free.
And maybe I’ll waver, lose my way,
but I’ll remember the warmth,
the voice that called, the step I took,
and I’ll find my way back.
No burden, no shame, only grace.

I walk to be held, to be known,
to a love that claims me whole,
and though I once felt undeserving,
I know now—
I am wanted, seen, saved.
Today, I chose to live.

I have seen the world change,
its heartbeat quickened by fear,
its warmth eclipsed by suspicion.
The streets hum with hurried steps,
heads bowed, avoiding eye contact—
not out of shame,
but out of survival.

Kindness feels like a relic,
a whispered legend
too fragile to bear the weight of this age.
We wear our pain like armor,
every scar a shield,
every bruise a blade.
But in this battle,
who are we fighting
if not ourselves?

I admit,
there are days
when kindness slips through my fingers,
when the weight of my own story
makes it hard to reach for someone else's.
There are moments
when bitterness feels safer
than vulnerability,
when I can't bear to offer softness
to a world that feels so sharp.

But then,
in the quiet of my own mind,
I find a truth—
one that whispers like a forgotten friend:
You are your own sanctuary.

To be kind to myself
is not indulgence;
it is survival.
It is looking into the mirror
and saying,
"I see you. I forgive you. I will not turn away."

Because if I cannot soften my edges for myself,
how can I hope to offer warmth to others?
If I cannot cradle my own grief,
how can I console the grief of the world?

So I begin again,
each day, each hour,
with small mercies:
pausing to breathe,
allowing my shoulders to relax,
speaking to myself with the tenderness
I crave from others.

And when the world claws at me,
demanding pieces I cannot give,
I remind myself:
I am not here to break
so others can feel whole.

Kindness is not a finite resource.
It begins at home,
in the soft spaces of my soul.
And as I learn to carry it within,
it spills over,
quietly, gently,
into the lives of those around me.

The world may be unrecognizable—
a stranger cloaked in shadow—
but I refuse to let it turn me
into a stranger to myself.
I am my own companion,
my own healer,
my own hope.

And so, I will be gentle,
even when the world is not.
Especially when the world is not.