Life doesn't come with a map.
It throws curveballs, storms, and silence.
You take the hits. You get back up.
You wear the scars like armor—not shame.

Not everyone's going to clap when you rise—
Good. You're not here for their applause.
You're here to own your story,
Not beg for a role in someone else's.

The world will try to crush you.
Lie to you.
Tell you you're too much, or not enough.
Laugh when you fall.
Doubt when you speak.
But guess what?

They don’t get to define you.
You are forged, not broken.
Bent, not beaten.
Every bruise is a blueprint.
Every fall, fuel.

So break the rules they wrote for you.
Set fire to the limits.
And walk—no, run—into the life
you were told you couldn't have.

O trothful comrade,
What soever shall I do?
Hadst thou not been thither,
Biding by the loo?

My quiet white knight,
A bold one, is he,
Swift to save my ****—
Quite literally.

Howbeit grim the duty,
He bringeth to pass,
Removes all the blemish,
No questions asked.

Thro’ the sea an’ the storm,
We rest hand in hand;
Anon, a vanquished battle—
In pride we stand.

O trothful comrade,
If but it were e’er true,
That people were toilet papers,
Just such as thou.

Summer’s gift,
a sun-kissed treat—
a succulent escape
from the prickly heat.

Summer’s honey
dances with grace,
in whirlpools of yellow—
a golden glaze.

Tinted nectar
trickles from a cave;
adrift in desire,
we become its slave.

Summer’s gift,
a sun-kissed treat—
a citrus paradise,
a heavenly retreat.