The stigma of failure doesn’t run like a train,
Yet passengers crowd in, each forced to sip the same brew.
A new recruit takes the cup—bitter yet familiar,
Caffeine laced with ambition, turning addiction into success.

A mind, once unshackled, stumbles upon serendipity,
Yet the soil, the seeds, the rain—none are to blame.
It’s not the land that falters, nor the roots that wither,
But the way we shape each sprout to fit a rigid frame.

Growth isn’t nurtured—it’s engineered,
Hormones infused, branches pruned,
Till every tree stands the same,
A forest of conformity, swaying to expectation’s tune.

You tied the rope around my neck—
The same rope that once wove our fates together.
You shattered the ceramic vase,
Where we had planted the roots of forever.

"If it breaks, we’ll do kintsugi," you once said.
But what now?
The shards cut too deep,
And you left before the gold could mend the cracks.

You broke me like glass against a stone floor,
Fractured in places even time cannot reach.
You whispered love, and I bottled it—
A song trapped in a broken cassette,
Rewinding itself to echoes of an unraveling past.

You were my sun, pulling me into your orbit,
But the eclipse lingers too long.
I stand in the shadow, waiting for dawn.

And still, I wait—
Even as my ribs splinter under the weight of hope.
Even as my heart beats against a hollow door,
Knocking, knowing you will never answer.

Studying last minute is like reheating fries—
It kinda works, but it’s never the same quality!
You wouldn’t be drowning in books tonight,
If your delulu dreams took a backseat right,
But oh, love won’t help you pass the fight!

The rain weaves its fingers through my hair,
like your love, sinking into every strand of my being.
Each drop, a syllable in the poem of us,
each breeze, the hush of your voice against my skin.

The clouds drift above, not mere vapor,
but the outstretched arms of your devotion,
hovering, shielding, wrapping me in whispers of forever.

I am not science, no formula to decode,
no equation seeking balance—
I am the ink that bleeds into parchment,
the unchained verse, reckless and free.

I love you like the moon loves the tides,
pulled by forces unseen, unmeasured—
like a comet that forgets its path,
falling, falling, into the gravity of you.

You wear the mask of kindness,
A porcelain smile, polished for the world.
Your hands reach for all but the one who lingers
In your shadow, silent as dusk—
Is she truly beloved, or just a name you keep?

She is a paper lantern in a storm,
Her grievances fold like hidden creases,
Tied tight as a kimono’s breathless knot.
She stands within the sacred rites,
A ghost among the living,
Draped in the weight of unseen chains.

But you chase reflections in silvered glass,
A puppet to the world’s approving gaze.
Yet the truth is not a mirror’s trick—
It bends, warps, escapes,
Like light slipping through a shattered lens

The bruises you veil beneath a painted smile,
Layers of foundation masking hollow nights.
Dark, pale suffering seeps through the cracks,
While red-rimmed eyes whisper silent prayers—
Begging, pleading for an unheard dawn.

"God, how cruel to silence a woman's cry."

But fate was inked in unseen hands,
And she faded—not in scripted sorrow,
Not in a drama where love rewrites the end,
But in the quiet decay of indifference.

It wasn’t just her war to lose,
But a battle rigged by a world that never listened—
A coin flipped, always landing on the rotten side.

The chest is a coffin, cradling shards of a broken heart,
Too heavy to carry, too shattered to restart.
It once wept rivers for you, drowning in its own tide,
But the brain scoffed—"Fool, let the ocean run dry."

The heart still carves your name into its aching walls,
A prisoner of love, bound by rusted chains that never fall.
"You are hollow," the heart cries in disdain,
"Love escapes you—you lust in vain.
You're frail, mere desire guides your way,

I knew roses had thorns, yet I plucked them with bare hands,
Let them sink deep, let them bleed, let them brand.
And when the wounds screamed, I kissed them shut,
Sewing my pain with threads of dusk.

Every bone hums with the echoes of losing you,
Every ligament, every tendon—ghost limbs reaching through.
Yet the heart, made of muscle, does nothing but break—
It does not heal, it only loves, hates, and aches.

The flower needs rest,
so winter tucks it beneath the earth,
letting it sleep until spring.

The sun needs rest,
so the clouds and rain embrace it,
shielding its warmth for another day.