They don’t just describe emotions—
They dissect them.
Make you wonder
Why you feel,
And how much.

Some let their pens speak,
Others carry verses within—
Written on the walls of their minds,
Etched into the pulse of their hearts.

Poets are powerful.
They paint sorrow with beauty,
And make joy even more delightful.
They show us the world
Through an entirely different lens.

They can dress poverty in poetry,
And make wealth seem vainly stunning.
They stir our emotions,
Make us love deeply—
And hate just as fiercely.

We’re all born with a poet inside us.
Most just forget to listen.

Regrets—
like halo nevi,
ghost-circles etched beneath the skin,
not quite wounds,
but not quite gone.

I carry silence like a sealed coffin,
heavy not with death,
but with all I never said.
Grief grows in the throat
where words once should have lived.

My past lingers—
not like a shadow,
but like a scent in a room no one enters anymore.
Rot clings softly,
sweet and unbearable.

There is a golden rose—
my mother.
Once blooming with fire,
now fading
petal by petal.
Each fall is a clock hand turning,
and I am forced to watch.

I want to hold her together
with magic,
with anything—
but my hands shake,
and time doesn’t wait
for trembling children.

I tried to build her peace—
a garden with soft walls,
sun-warmed laughter,
a space untouched by cruelty.
But I only built ruins,
a house with love in its bones
and grief in its windows.

She looks at me,
still bleeding
from wounds she took in my name.
Her strength was stitched into my survival.
I stand
because she broke.

And still—
she smiles.

We drift.
Two hearts once knotted tight
now pulled by slow, merciless winds.
I feel the thread thinning.
I know it will snap.
Everything beautiful eventually does.

I wish I could rewind
every unkind second,
every moment I was too late to love her right.
But time isn’t kind.
It only moves forward—
a thief that never apologizes.

My heart is a drum
pounding behind a cracked ribcage,
not with life—
but with fear.

I watch her—
fragile, fading,
each second more precious
because it cannot be kept.

And I know
regret is coming.
Like halo nevi—
soft, invisible, permanent.

She is everything.
And I—
I am only the witness
to her slow disappearance.

Some memories hurt, like rain on the skin,
Soaking me deep, seeping within.
Some strike like lightning, fierce and loud,
Leaving behind scars I carry proud.

But not all scars are born from pain—
Some come from laughter, sunshine, rain.
A smile once shared, a hand held tight,
Leaves marks just as real, though soft and light.

We often remember the wounds that sting,
But joy leaves fingerprints on everything.
Like grip marks etched from love’s embrace,
They stay through time, they hold their place.

So when the sorrow calls your name,
Look closer—joy walks just the same.
To live is to feel—both rise and fall,
Each moment matters, big or small.

A flat line means silence, an end to the fight,
But life lives in motion—in dark and in light.
So I’ll treasure the scars, both gentle and deep,
For they tell the story I’m destined to keep.

The veiled mist surrounds my life,
No certainty of where it ends.
One thing’s sure—it will, in time—
Yet solace hides in shadowed bends.
Somewhere within the fog of days,
A hush of peace may lie in wait—
But will I find it 'fore it fades,
Or chase its ghost a breath too late?

Canoeing through these waves alone,
No map to show where currents flow.
Will I arrive at gentle shores—
Or crash on rocks I didn’t know?

Life—it's gambling with a breath,
A roll of stars, a coin mid-air—
Will you win a jewel of worth,
Or lose what can't be grown elsewhere?

But maybe that's the soul of it—
This glaze of chance on life's warm crust.
It must be veiled in shifting light—
To make it shine, to make us trust.

Something clutches my chest—
a ghost-hand, tight as ivy on stone.
My heart, a trembling bird,
flutters at the edge of a storm.

The center of me burns—
a dying sun folding into itself,
pulling all light
into a single, aching point.

And there—
a tide of shadows calls,
dragging me down
where even dreams forget to rise.

I sit on a stone that never softens,
but it’s not my skin that cries—
it’s the storm clawing at my hands,
the weight I cradle in silence,
pretending it’s not there
as it eats through bone.

I am drowning—
not in water,
but in quiet waves that no one sees.
They pull me under
as I learn to move
with pain pressed close—
like a mother who never meant to hurt me.

My smile stretches—
a trembling bridge of porcelain
trying to hold back a wildfire.
It cracks at the corners,
but I keep smiling,
because I forgot how not to.

Anxiety curls like smoke,
slow and poisonous in my chest,
while I stand on a tower of cards—
every decision
a fragile breath away
from ruin.

I dance on the cliff’s edge,
not out of bravery,
but because I was shoved there.
And the wind,
so cruel in its lullaby,
sings a song
that only the breaking can hear.

The alarm cries again—
not to wake me,
but to drag me
back into the fire I call routine.
Each day,
another performance
in the theatre of almost falling apart.

Still, I rise—
not because I’m strong,
but because I haven’t yet
found a soft place to fall.

Once,
the tree was only a whisper—
a dream cradled in the arms of soil.
A tiny seed, trembling,
yet daring to believe in sunlight.

Storms came early.
Winds screamed names it didn't understand.
But it stayed—
letting its roots sink deep
into the quiet ache of the earth.
The soil, ancient and tender,
carried centuries of silent sacrifices.
It held the tree like a promise
never meant to break.

Its branches stretched—
not for the sky,
but for something softer,
maybe hope.
Each knot in its wood,
a story of pain swallowed instead of spoken.
Each resin drip—
a memory stuck in the hollows of its chest.

Still, it stood.
Beasts circled.
Axes whispered through the leaves.
But the soil whispered louder—
“Grow. Even if it hurts.
Even if they try to break you.
Be so strong they forget how to cut you.”

But not every root finds water.
Not every seed feels sun.
Some trees grow in shadows so deep
they start thinking darkness is home.

Some fall.
Not from weakness,
but from carrying too much silence.

And when all that’s left
is a stump in the clearing—
they call it the end.
But beneath the surface,
the roots still hum.
They remember.
They ache.
They whisper the moments
when the tree wanted to give in—
but didn't.
Not yet.

Because it thought of the soil.
The quiet hands that held it.
The love that never asked to be seen,
but was always there.

It wanted to stay.
It truly did.
But sometimes, the rain never comes.
And sometimes,
the weight of invisible pain
is heavier than a storm.

And still—
even as it fell,
it thought:
If I leave,
what will happen to the soil?
Will it blame itself
for a drought it couldn’t stop?

Because trees don’t just die.
Sometimes,
they break their own hearts
to keep from breaking their roots.