Touched the sky—
this blue isn't mine.
The sea, the greens,
the grass, the bees,
the mighty trees.
Every color touched one life.
Then why does mine deceive the eye?
Borrowing shades from every passing thing
Could that be why
I sit alone in white light?
The palette holds a thousand colors,
yet none can paint me.
It's always what meets the eye.
The palette never seemed mine.
Why is this happening to me?
What is this suffocation?
What is this feeling inside me?
Why can't I just be myself?
Why can't I be happy?
Why can't I enjoy myself?
Why do I always have to find reasons?
Why am I searching for them?
Why am I trying to satisfy myself with them?
Why do the things I enjoy become the sins of my life?
Why am I trying so hard to find reasons?
Why am I trying to become someone else?
Why do I feel like I am a sin?
Why do my deeds become sins?
Why do my thoughts become sins?
Why can't I be happy?
O existence, please tell me.
Please help me become myself.
The heart is ever restless
Because it tries to find its rest in temporary places
The heart searches, it yearns, it pumps life into us
Even when we do not notice it.
What is deep down?
We do not know until we have explored that abyss,
That dark cave.
Why are we so afraid of discovering ourselves?
Why are we so terrified in discovering the truth that lies within?
With truth, comes responsibility
And most of us feel we have enough on our plates
Then disturb a sleeping dragon.
You know what you wanna do
and yet i dont have a single clue
Blinded to the ceiling
Twisted in this feeling
Where are we going?
No idea its just flowing
What should i do next?
They claim I’ll find you calling
I keep on hoping and waiting
My head is hurting,
Yet I keep on thinking
I can’t help but feel blue
I need to find my cue
I just need a clue
Show me the maps etched in your skin,
the ones the world wasn’t meant to see.
I know the syntax of a wound...
the dialect of the "almost" and the "used to be."
Not the scars of a stumble or a fall
but the weight of a name, a night, a wall;
The words that settled like silt in your chest
until they became the rhythm of your rest.
The deepest hurts don't always bleed;
They manifest in the things you don't need...
In the way your laughter cuts off at the edge,
in the silence you use as a sharpened wedge.
I see the flinch before the touch,
the way you give, but never too much.
Turning your eyes to the floor or the door
before the heart can ask for more.
Show me the jagged, the worn and the deep,
The secrets your silver scarred memories keep.
You aren't a puzzle or a "difficult" soul,
just a story that had to fight to be whole.
For those who have walked through a sunless spark
are the only ones who can see in the dark.
Unwritten Days
Some days arrive softly,
like a page still warm
from the promise of ink.
I don’t always know
what story I’m living
only that my heart
keeps turning forward.
Not every step is loud,
not every win shines,
but quiet courage
is still courage.
So here I am again:
breathing, hoping,
writing beauty
into a day
that hasn’t finished
becoming yet.
Soft Becoming
I used to think
growth had a sound
applause, fireworks,
a loud arrival.
But lately
it feels like breathing:
quiet, steady,
almost unnoticed.
A gentler voice,
a calmer heart,
boundaries forming
like invisible armor.
Maybe becoming
was never meant
to impress the world
only
to bring me home
to myself.
I am not late
just a flower
learning the language of rain.
Some days I wilt
under quiet expectations,
other days
I surprise myself
with color I didn’t know I carried.
Growth is rarely loud.
It whispers in patience,
in the courage to begin again,
in the choice to hope
even when the soil feels heavy.
So if you find me still becoming,
still stretching toward light,
know this
I am not unfinished.
I am simply
blooming on purpose.
Maybe today, alone I stand
Spoiled by a quiet command;
A concealed teacher underhands
a lesson you cannot let pass.
If what is brought is such a challenge,
and what's sought is comfort, not damage.
Then maybe today, who's abandoned?
If there's a trap, there's cached safe passage.
Maybe tomorrow, the sudden will come to pass.
If ever so, commit yourself to what will last,
And if you need evidence to lay in your hands,
Then maybe yesterday you forgot what you have.
How can you be alone when unto you is cast
challenge after challenge, lessons you can get past?
From whom gives these problems to you?
To whom lulls sweeter swan songs tuned?
Maybe today,
you will remember the more there is to you.
i get these random bouts of sadness that consume me
tears fall easily at the sight of another’s pain or joy
feelings of regret and longing wash over me and i begin to wonder if I’ll ever truly get to enjoy the human experience
to feel and to be loved
is only an idea my mind can barely picture
i enjoy pressing the wound
deepening the sorrow i feel
watching others broadcast their perfect love,
achieve their deepest desires
it is not envy
it is despair
will i ever experience that?
do i deserve to?
who am i
if i live a life never attaining my desires?
my house is my body.
i live in it
like someone who just arrived
with too many boxes
and no map.
my house is sometimes quiet,
not empty, just resting.
the kind of silence that feels like sunday afternoons
and dust floating in the sun.
sometimes it hums,
a low noise under my skin,
reminding me i’m here.
my house has rooms i visit slowly.
a small one behind my ribs
where i keep thoughts folded neatly,
not hidden, just waiting.
a kitchen where i feed myself hope
even when i’m not hungry.
my house feels warm with others.
voices in the hallway.
music in the air.
when i’m alone, it cools,
but it’s never empty.
there’s always something soft to hold.
my house has walls that know me.
they’ve heard thoughts
before i trusted them with my mouth.
they don’t answer back.
they don’t leave.
my house moves at night.
my heart walking around.
my bones settling in.
i tell myself it’s normal,
houses move when they’re lived in.
my house isn’t perfect.
it has cracks.
but light gets in anyway.
i don’t always love this place,
but i stay.
i open windows.
i learn.
because this house,
unfinished and breathing,
is mine.
lShe carries a quiet bravery
beneath the soft rise of her breath—
a tender storm the world never sees,
a flame she shields from the wind of days.
In the hush between her heartbeats,
she gathers the pieces of her hope,
threading them like dawnlight
through the shadows of her doubts.
She does not roar her strength aloud—
it lives in smaller miracles:
the way she rises after falling,
the way she dreams despite the scars,
the way she walks into tomorrow
with trembling steps
that still
move forward.
And if the world ever pauses
long enough to listen,
it will hear the quiet truth of her—
that courage does not always shout;
sometimes it is the soft,
steadfast whisper
that refuses
to disappear.
I look like I don’t care,
but I notice every little thing.
I laugh like nothing bothers me,
yet my heart feels everything.
I love being on my own,
but I treasure those who stay.
I say I’m fine most of the time,
but I feel more than words can say.
I am a paradox,
not because I try to be,
but because I hold a world inside
that the world might never see.
You’ve spent years gathering pieces.
Lessons woven into your hands,
stitched into your voice,
threaded through the way you move.
Still, you hesitate.
As if wisdom needs a witness.
As if truth needs permission.
As if you are waiting for someone
to say, yes, you are allowed.
But no one is coming to grant you authority.
No degree, no title, no nod of approval
will make you more of what you already are.
You know.
You have always known.
And when you finally claim it—
they will know too.
It is a long journey
from the first breath drawn
to the final sigh
our lungs release.
The search is not for a name
but for its meaning
to ask what it is
to stand fully human.
It winds through valleys of doubt
through alleys guilt dare not enter
a path with no shortcuts
only steps into the unknown.
It is not a destination
but a vast, shifting sea
no shore in sight
only thoughts adrift, seeking home.
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