Each morning, lips to bitter brew,
Each night, a toast to battles lost.
The bruised crescents beneath my eyes
Are trophies crowned by what they cost.

“Was it worth it?”—a prayerless cry
To gods who watched and never came.
The mirror grins, a beast reborn,
Whispers, “Now, we play the game.”

I peeled away the past they burned,
Revealed a skin they’ll never know.
No longer just my suffering—
I am the storm their seeds will sow.

It hurts so bad, I cannot breathe—
A storm within, I cannot leave.

My iron heart, once forged so strong,
Now brittle, cracking, something wrong.

What is missing? What have I lost?
Why does the past return, like frost?
The pain—it lingers, cloaked in rain,
Thunder murmurs all my pain.

Afraid to take one step ahead,
The ladder shakes, my soul has bled.
My legs, they tremble—weak, too small,
I know—I know—I’m bound to fall.

The air smells old—like ghosts, like time,
A bitter taste, a steep decline.
Why does the past still call my name?
Why must I burn inside this flame?

But even storms must break, must die,
And even pain runs out of sky.

So though I shake, though I despair,
I’ll climb—I’ll climb—through fractured air.

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.

Flesh or fruit—what's your feast?
The forest doesn't ask, the jungle doesn’t preach.
It kills. It eats. It sleeps.
No courtroom. No guilt. No peace.

We **** too.
But with suits.
With fear.
With scars.

Some **** to live. Some live to ****.
A lion tears flesh.
We sign deals.
Which one's worse?

They prey. Not ******.
We ******. Then pray.

Is that justice...
Or just instinct in disguise?

Nature doesn’t ask why.
It simply survives.
But us?
We decorate our hunger…
…and call it power.

Did my prayers reach You, God?
Or were You holding up a mirror,
reflecting them back as a rainbow —
so I’d know You listened?

Did You send the rain to fall with my tears,
so no one else would notice…
but You still would?

Was it You flashing the sky with light?
Were You taking my picture —
like a proud parent from above?

The clouds looked so chubby today...
Are You teasing me again?
Yes, I’m fat —
but I look as soft and loved as they are.

Why are the moon and stars in the same sky,
yet only the stars twinkle?
Is the moon quiet because it holds me in silence,
while the stars blink because they miss me?

I’m not orphaned.
I am seen.
I am known.
Heaven is watching —
quiet, kind, and full of light.

I came into this world like a song—
soft, fleeting, and full of wonder.
And one day, I will leave
just as quietly.
Like the last light before night falls.

Bury my fragments in earth’s quiet hands,
let my ashes ripple through sleeping seas.
Cry, but only like morning dew—
brief, tender, and full of love.

If you must cry,
let your tears be gentle.
Like the rain that falls in spring—
not to grieve,
but to grow.

When you look up at the sky,
and a star seems to shine just for you,
know that it’s me—
loving you from a distance
only souls can reach.

And when the wind brushes your cheek,
or rain kisses your hands,
know that I’ve returned—
Not as sorrow.
But as love.
A promise that never left.

Your hair’s cropped, bare enough
for me to memorize the shape of you—
my hands don’t wander; they return.

With your glasses, you glimpse the world.
Without them, you’re mine—
the blur becomes me,
and I become everything you see.

The bruise I left was no accident—
desire marked you because words couldn’t.
It bloomed like a secret only we could touch,
a dark petal over your skin

The ocean is jealous;
it will never know the depth I’ve fallen into you.
I’ve fallen into you so deep,
even gravity would beg for mercy.

You’re not a habit—
you’re a need.
I vape your scent like it's the last breath I'll take,
not to live, but to burn.

We met in the mist,
but that was no coincidence.
I called for you before I even knew your name.

And now,
I don’t just love you—
I ache to keep you,
every second,
in every breath,
beneath every bruise.

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.

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.

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 was a fogged mirror,
cracks hidden in silence—
your voice,
a drop of rain
on my tired glass.

You didn’t fix me.
You just sat beside the storm,
and called it beautiful.
I didn’t believe you…
but you stayed.

Like spring thaw,
you melted
what winter buried—
called me alive
before I could breathe.

I hated my shape.
You traced it
with kindness.
I was broken.
You whispered, "Even this is art."

And now,
if I love myself
on quiet days…
it’s because
you loved me first.