oh sad eyes,
look up,
try to see—

it’s not over.

you didn’t break,
you didn’t falter.

i know it’s hard,
harder to deny—

sometimes you
have to let them go
before your soul dies.

you can’t carry two worlds
when only one is yours.

look at me,
sad eyes,

i promise
it’ll be okay.

sometimes you
have to build walls,
draw a line in the sand.

sad eyes,
please understand—

it doesn’t mean hate,
it means you chose peace
over conflict.

maybe one day
you’ll cross paths again,
and both of you
will understand.

sad eyes,
look up,
try to see—

this is not
the end of you.

Right here: surface level regrets— a smile rehearsed hides too many
oceans underneath. To lose the mark of a purpose, drowning in
the weight of it, falling asleep too far from tomorrow, and begging
the clock for hours to borrow.

I was almost crushed, a branch torn from its root— still green,
still alive, but already withering in the dirt. Among circles of people,
most days stack like square bricks; I fly too low, chasing reflections,
the heron staring back from water’s despair.

Fresh lipstick still stings— beauty sharpened into a lethal injection.
Kindness can be your only mistake, forcing a straight smile onto a
crooked day. Faith rubs raw against friction; love can be a salvation,
but fatal is it's attraction.

But to stay still, makes a silhouette pinned to the wall, lonely but
lovely in outline— as the shadows above become surface level
regrets. But tomorrow, I’ll trace the same lines again, hoping each
cycle might end better than the last.

In the breath of time, I gasped a second of a dream –
to clock it all in a single second; to live off seconds,
to starve on scraps, constantly second-guessing
myself. It feels like going back, stepping into my
past – a time traveller, as much, wandering the
ruins of yesterday.

Give me a second to catch my breath; here in this
second stanza; I wear each stanza like armour–
armour stitched from broken words, to fight for
peace in armour, to piece together what’s left of
honour. Where hell meant to crush my thoughts,
I cover my head with a helmet, shielding my
mind from the fire.

And if they break my bones – I’ll pick a bone with
the breaking, laughing in the face of the fracture,
gnawing on the marrow of pain until it tastes like
defiance. Every scar another tick of the clock; every
second I stand, I steal back from the seconds that
tried to finish me.

Call me a time traveller, for I’ve learned to turn
broken seconds into futures

You’ve spent a long time walking
down a darker lane,
spiraled out of control,
dragged yourself
into the wrong kind of fame.

Now you’re picking up the pieces,
learning they’ll only remember
who you used to be—
not who you are now,
not who you’re becoming.

There is no turning point
when they look the other way.
Still you hope that someday
someone will take you
with open arms.

’Cause there’s no greater harm
than being lonely,
being lost.
No greater harm
than being lonely,
being lost.

You’ve reached your breaking point,
almost given in.
But I want you to know:
your past does not define
who you are,
or what you’ve become.

You cannot let the sins of yesterday
swallow you whole.
Yesterday doesn’t define
who you’ve become today.

And today,
you are enough.

They raise their voice—
sharp as thunder breaking morning.
I sigh, roll my eyes,
but later find dinner kept warm,
a blanket folded at the foot of my bed,
the porch light left on.

School drains me—
assignments stack like bricks.
But my backpack holds books,
my teachers call me by name,
someone saves a chair for me.

Sometimes I ache
from being the one who always understands.
But my playlist still knows the lyrics
that hold me together.

And in the quiet,
I see the love that never left.

They said I drowned,
but the truth is softer:
I laid myself down like an offering.

I spit river into their open mouths.
I bit the lilies in half.

Silk turned cathedral.
I let my dress balloon with river light.

The earth had nowhere else for me.

If you pressed your ear to the surface,
you would have heard me humming.
They didn’t write that part.

When they pulled me out,
I still had violets in my teeth.
I still had the nerve to look alive.

If ruin was the crown they gave me,
I wore it dripping.
I wore it bright.

You think you know the story:
girl, river, grief.

But the water was warm that day.
The sky was a soft ache.
I was tired of carrying everyone else’s ending.

So I wrote my own.

Not drowned.
Not tragic.
Not accepting their ending.

The *** never worries about its shine,
but only if the chef can stir more than heat.
Good looks can season the eyes, but flavor
fades quickly if the soul isn’t fed.

Jewels on the counter don’t make a meal—
the scars of the pan prove it’s lived through fire.
A recipe isn’t written in gold, but in burns,
in the scrapes, and in hands that keep cooking.

So dress the kitchen however you please,
but know this: the worth of what you serve
is weighed in the scars you carry, not the shine
you polish.

And now I ask—
which kind of *** are you?