A heap of waste may reek at first,
but even rot makes room for roots.
What begins in decay
can still rise in bloom.
There’s still hope—
quiet, maybe,
but steady like a seed beneath the soil.

And if the ship goes under—
don’t wait for rescue.
Swim.
Even if the sea is endless,
even if hope is a whisper.
Better to reach with burning lungs
than to sink with “what if” in your chest.

The forest hummed its ancient lullaby,
Cold winds threading sorrow through my skin.
Its trees—bowed, yet never broken—murmured:
"It is our fate to wither or to rise,
To ache, or chase the flicker of fading stars.
But the soul—you alone may steer its course.
Be still—every forest ends in light,
The sky will one day kiss the sea,
And even the sun must drown in the ocean’s hush.
Yes, it aches. So endure—or awaken."

For not all wounds are soothed by silence,
Not all chains are meant to hold.
Some dreams slip through trembling hands,
But it is never your fault when they fall.

Why does it feel as though a mountain rests upon my chest?
My shoulders splintering, bowed beneath its weight,
My heart, shattered glass upon the cold earth,
Yearning for a breeze to sweep it whole again.

Oh Lord, am I but a fragile soul?
Why burden me with more than I can bear?
While they dance in sunlight's golden glow,
I am lost, drowning in the shadows' grasp.
Why do they sip from chalices of gold,
While I stand, empty, watching their joy cascade like rain?

The autumn leaves feel so aesthetic—
a gentle filter draped on time,
a sepia kiss on our photograph,
making it look happily sad.

I see it like that.

For one day, we too shall fall
like dried leaves
from the tree of life and memory.
Old, pale-gold, fragile in form—
but never in love.

Don’t they look beautifully aged,
soft as whispered stories,
aesthetic in their quiet descent—
just like we will be, one day.

And if time must wither us,
I want to wither beside you—
to curl like a golden leaf
around your presence,
falling gently into forever.

We’ll rest upon the roads
where others pass—
some may pause and notice,
others will simply move on.

But we’ll remain—
an old poem written in leaves,
pressed between seasons,
forever soft in memory.

The mirror holds a fractured grace, glazed in melancholy.
A vintage gown drapes her sorrowed frame—
beauty hidden in the silence of old seams.
Beneath a spotlight sharpened by judgment,
she once danced to the hush of a blade,
each step a wound,
each twirl a quiet cry.
But when she bled, no hands reached—
only eyes, heavy with verdicts.
They mapped her scars
with whispers cloaked in care,
too late, too false.
Now, she does not flinch.
She gathers their dust
and builds a throne.
She wears her wounds
like medals sewn in moonlight,
her silence louder than their noise—
brave not because she is unbroken,
but because she walks,
unafraid of the cracks.

Let me hold you,
like fire curls around the air it needs.
Your presence stirs something in me—
a longing that no silence feeds.

I’d break for you, bend for you,
become shelter when the world forgets to be kind.
I’d give without question,
lose myself, just to see you find me.

So stay.
Always… be with me.