With each tick of the clock, seasons quietly bend,
Every storm that came and went, left behind a friend.

The sunlit land now shivers under snow’s command,
Where warm winds once whispered love, silence now stands.

Golden leaves spoke softly, of life and its tide,
Even fruits lost their sweetness, as time passed by.

Once smooth and tender, their skins now cracked and dry,
The days grow shorter, and love asks why.

If only I had sown a garden, with these fleeting days,
Cradled each moment softly, like colors in sun rays.

Had I only watered the leaves, kept them green with care,
Saved them from curling dry, held them in prayer.

I should’ve tasted the fruit, while it still held light,
Wrapped it in shade, before it faded from sight.

In age or youth, I’d hold them close and tight,
Cover them in warmth, before the cold took flight.

Just once more, I wish time would be kind,
Let us dance, sing, leave the past behind.

For this life was never mine alone to see—
It was always ours, our shared destiny.

My love is an ocean—
not for sailing, but drowning.
Each wave bears the weight of ache,
salted with longing and reverence.

Rivers of devotion spill from my ribs,
carving your name into stone
with hands that bleed faith.

And if time grinds it down to sand,
let it become a sacred shore—
where our echoes shape the tides,
where memory breathes in seafoam,
and only we remain—
bare, eternal, mythic.

What if you changed, like the seasons I feared?
What if love passed quicker, like weather, unclear?
What if you swayed toward a better scent in the air—
And left behind my sand art, made for you with care?

My doubts were carved by storms of the past,
Etched deep by hands that never did last.
Were you like them, too? A passing face?
But you weren’t.
Why?

Do you love me that much?

You didn’t change.
You lit your moonlight on me in the blaze of June,
Made my days bright like a midday tune.
You dusted trust across the snowfall's hush—
And somehow, that cold began to blush.

In spring, we planted memories with bare, open hands,
Shed old scars like the tide letting go of broken shells on the sand.
You whispered:
"You're the rarest scent—I breathe you in,"
"Not just a creation, you’re my one true skin."
"You’re not just art—you’re the only art I ever knew,"
"Ours was no accident—ocean currents drew me to you."

If you dream of a car lined in gold,
let it be a chariot for your heart —
not a trumpet for strangers' eyes.
Let the engine hum in silence,
as you drive through moments that matter.

Park it where laughter lives,
where your child clutches your hand,
where your mother rests her tired bones
and smiles, not at the car, but at you.

Don’t raise your children to crave mirrors —
raise them to be flames.
To build their own wheels of purpose,
to carry light, not noise.

Status is a mirage —
glimmering in heat, vanishing at dusk.
But kindness?
Kindness leaves tire marks on time.

Let your legacy be not the car you drove,
but the lives you moved,
the roads you built
for those still walking barefoot.

I’m just a teen,
threading my heart into words—
dropping verses like fallen leaves
for no one,
and everyone
to find.

But you—
you arrive like a winter wind in summer.
Real as breath on glass.
Fragile as something that cracked quietly...
and stayed standing.

You bring your ache
with open hands.
Not hiding the weight.
Like someone carrying rain
in a woven basket—
just to prove
the storm had shape.

This space?
It was empty once.
Just pixels.
Just silence.

Now it hums.
You made it holy.
You made it human.

And somehow,
I’m not just typing.
I’m sitting beside you,
barefoot in your storm—
offering nothing
but presence
and the softest kind of light.

If the world feels locked…
If understanding hangs
like fog just out of reach…
If today is slow,
and soft,
and sad...

Let this be a whisper:

🕊️
You are not alone in the ache.
You are not too much.
Your sadness is not silence—
it’s a song too pure
for anyone
who forgot
how to listen.

You don’t have to rise like the sun each day—
some mornings, it's enough just to open your eyes,
to sit with the silence,
to feel your heartbeat and whisper, “I’m still here.”

You are not the storm that passed,
nor the ruins it left behind.
You are the seed under the soil,
waiting for the right rain,
the quiet miracle of a soul not giving up.

Let no one shame the pace of your healing.
Let no voice drown out the hush of your trying.
Because surviving is not small.
And breathing, on hard days,
is a kind of bravery the world forgets to praise.

So rest, dreamer.
You don’t need to shine tonight.
You just need to stay—
soft, alive,
and wildly worthy of tomorrow.

Get up. Clear your desk and sit on that table like it’s your throne.
Are the crows sitting idle around you too noisy?
It's because your crown’s reflection burns through their nerves.
Failure? It’s poison dressed as medicine.
Makes you gag, makes you want to quit.
But every drop trains your soul to survive.
You called the storm—now wear the scars.
Own your failure.
Its scars will be the secret architecture of your future glory.