Most days slip by quietly—
wake up, eat, work,
go to bed.
Another page in the calendar,
nothing different.
But a birthday feels different.
It’s like the world leans in
for just a moment and says,
you were born,
and that still matters.
It’s not just cake or candles,
not just the messages that pile up
on your phone.
It’s the pause—
to look at yourself,
to see how far you’ve come,
to remember the child you were,
and the person you’re still becoming.
Other days remind us
to keep moving.
Birthdays remind us
to stop,
to breathe,
to be glad we made it
one more time around the sun.

They never noticed
when she stopped waving back—
how her laughter faded
like music from a passing car,
how her shoes stayed clean
for weeks.

once, she chased rain
to the edge of the river,
barefoot, out of breath,
her shadow chasing behind.
they called her wild—
too alive to sit still.

but stillness came.
not with a scream,
just silence,
growing louder by the day.

no one asked
why her side of the bed
was always made.
why she didn’t hum anymore.
as long as she smiled
and passed her tests,
they assumed she was fine.

when they looked for her,
the water led the way—
not the current,
but the quiet reflection
she once stared into
a little too long.

when they found her,
she looked almost asleep.
hair spread out like grass,
hands still.
no bruises—
at least,
not the kind they talk about.

maybe
she just wanted to know
what peace feels like
underneath it all

Who are you, with your stones so bright,
Tossed from your glass in the middle of night?
I watch, I wonder, I barely speak,
Yet your loud judgment feels so weak.

You mock the brick, the stone, the frame,
But your own walls wobble, all the same.
I’m new, I write, I try to see,
The cracks in your vanity, clear to me.

You point, you jeer, you love the show,
Blind to the shards that fall below.
Stone houses falter, that I know,
Yet glass, my friend, can cut just so.

Who are you, so certain, so loud,
When your reflection hides behind a cloud?
I’ll scribble my truth, small but true,
While you toss stones from your skewed view.

I love some hearts, but they turn away,
The ones who love me, never stay.

I want to choose, but fate decides,
With those I like, love often hides.

I fear to love, I fear to lose,
I fear the pain I can’t refuse.

I long for life without this fear,
But then I see, it brings things clear.

Without the dark, the light feels small,
Without the pain, joy means nothing at all.

I can’t live with fear, can’t live apart,
It lives with me, deep in my heart.

This is the truth, the constant fight,
Between the love I want and the fear of night.

I hate society—
not the word,
but the weight it straps to my back.

I hate judging eyes,
the kind that scan you like price tags
in stores you were never meant to enter.

I hate the whispers,
those secondhand sentences
stitched behind backs
then sweetened with smiles
when you turn around.

I hate the ungrateful—
the ones who drink from your cup
then ask why it wasn’t full enough.

I hate stone-throwers
in glass houses
who forget how loud
their own silence shatters
when truth hits back.

I hate the crowd—
the noise, the pretending,
the push to perform
when all I want
is to exist
in peace.

And sometimes,
I even hate the parts of me
still trying to belong
to a world
I no longer believe in.

Addiction sneaks in like an unwanted guest,
“Just one more,” it says, while I fail the test.
My snacks disappear, my shows pile high,
My phone rings a lot—do I even reply?

I swear I’ll quit… tomorrow, maybe tonight,
But it giggles and hides just out of sight.
It’s coffee at dawn, it’s scrolling till two,
It laughs at the promises I never keep true.
A messy old friend, both bitter and sweet,
Addiction’s the guest who won’t take defeat.

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.

I was always afraid of loneliness—
and more than that, the dark.
It made everything feel heavier.
I cried quietly when no one was around.

I chased the light,
but it never chased me back.
It passed over me like I didn’t matter.
So the dark stayed—
not by choice, but by nowhere else to go.

At first, it scared me,
but then I saw what the light never showed.
The dark didn’t demand my smile.
It let me fall apart without questions,
gave me space to breathe.

Now I sit with it quietly,
and the shadows finally feel like home.

I asked for peace.
Life gave me silence, disconnection—
and nothing to scroll away the discomfort.
Canceled plans,
one painfully awkward dinner with my parents.
(Spoiler: it worked.)

I prayed for strength.
Life handed me
spilled coffee,
a broken umbrella,
and a boss who emails at 12:01 AM.
Turns out—I flinch less now.
(Okay, maybe once.)

I begged for purpose.
Life said: “Laundry.”
Endless, sockless, mismatched piles.
I folded.
Then cried.
Then wrote a poem about it.
Now it’s framed in someone’s guest bathroom—
right above the toilet paper,
which feels oddly correct.

I wanted blessings.
Expected glitter.
Got bills, back pain,
and unsolicited advice
from my aunt who sells protein powder.
(Still, her hug saved me once.)

Turns out, blessings are quiet.
Struggles don’t wear signs.
And sometimes,
growth is just showing up—
with tired eyes, mismatched socks,
and a heart that’s tired,
but still says, “again.”

Excuse me, miss, can I pass? they shout,
While spilling opinions, inside and out.
Smile politely, nod, don’t bite,
They’ll lecture you on wrong and right.

Excuse me, miss, why wear that?
Or: “Are you eating? Careful, fat!”
Excuse me, miss, your voice is too loud,
Or: “Too quiet—blend with the crowd.”

Excuse me, miss, you should try this,
Or maybe that, because heaven forbid bliss.
Excuse me, miss, hurry up, slow down,
They critique your shoes, your hair, your frown.

Excuse me, miss, sit still, stand tall,
Do both, do neither, they’ll judge it all.
Excuse me, miss, laugh more, don’t tease,
Juggle it all, and do it with ease.

Excuse me, miss, just be yourself, they insist—
Oh wait, never mind… did I miss the twist?

It was supposed to be peace, a personal quest,
Just me, my playlist, and some well-earned rest.
But fate packed mischief inside my bag—
and left my joy with a customs tag.

The hotel? A "vintage gem" they said—
with peeling walls and a bug in my bed.
The faucet spit like an angry snake,
and the toilet sang opera with every break.

I planned to unwind with beach and breeze,
instead got sunburns down to my knees.
Forgot to flip—so one side fried,
the other stayed pale while my ego died.

Dinner was noodles, fiery and wild—
I wept like an emotional child.
Waiter winked, "Mild spice, ma'am."
Lied through his teeth like a traffic jam.

Came home with stories, not souvenirs,
a peeling nose, and ringing ears.
People ask, “You had fun, I bet?”
I smile and say, "Haven't recovered yet".
So cheers to the holiday that went all wrong—
now it lives in jokes and family song.
And when someone asks, “Ready to go away?”
I fake a cough… and quietly slink the other way.

We live to stub toes on furniture at night,
To eat cereal for dinner when nothing feels right.
We live for texts that say “thinking of you,”
And laughing so hard that your shoe flies too.

We live to mess up—then try again twice,
To burn the rice, forget the spice,
But still sit down with someone who smiles
And says, “Well hey, at least we tried.”

We live for art, and memes, and socks,
For stolen fries and paradox.
We live to cry at 3AM,
Then Google, “What would Oprah recommend?”

We live for those moments when we’re not okay,
We live for songs that hit too hard,
For healing in the form of scars.
We live for jokes that bomb and fly—
For dancing dumb under a peach-pink sky.

We live to find out what happens next.
To mail our souls in heartfelt texts.
To lose, to love, to fall, to mend—
To write the next line we didn’t intend.

So when life feels more “ugh” than divine,
Take heart—it’s just a plot twist in your storyline.
You’re still the main character, script in hand...
Now roll credits—or better yet, stand.

I woke up before the noise,
breathed with the trees,
walked with the sky.
The sun hadn't yawned yet,
but I had — twice.

Back home, I made coffee
strong enough to slap me awake.
I whispered to my cup,
"Let's be productive today."
It didn’t answer —
but I believed in us.

I sat down with math—
chapter four, page full of promises.
I underlined the heading,
adjusted my pen cap five times,
then sharpened a pencil
I didn’t even need.
Pro-level procrastination unlocked.

Midway through one sad-looking equation,
my phone lit up—
first a comment,
then a reel,
then a cat dancing to lo-fi beats.
Fifteen minutes later,
I knew three dessert recipes
and forgot the formula
I never really knew.

Suddenly, a line hit me—
not from the textbook,
but from somewhere softer.
A poem idea.
Just a line, I thought.
A quick jot.
A harmless verse.

But the line grew limbs,
called in stanzas,
and started demanding metaphors.
So I gave in.
I gave it my quiet,
my hours,
my last sip of cold coffee.

A crow watched me
from the window grill
like it knew
I was failing both maths and time.

And now—
the sun is long gone,
the sky has tucked itself in.
The poem is finished,
polished and breathing.
But that chapter?
Still untouched.
Still waiting.

How much can I love the one I love?
Enough to choose her every single time.
To hold her in silence when no one else did.
To give her joy, even if the world call it selfish.

I love myself more than anything—
so much that I never wait for permission
to taste happiness in its wildest form—
whether it’s praised or judged.

If your presence brings me joy,
I’ll treasure you like sunlight on my skin.
But the moment you bring thunder,
I’ll walk away without a second glance.
Not out of hate—
but out of love
for the girl who never deserves storms.

My love isn’t Romeo-Juliet.
I won’t die for absence,
I won’t disappear for someone else’s story.
I am not half of a whole.
I am the whole.

To love me is to stand beside me.
To leave me is to lose me.
And that, too, is love—
the kind that never begs, never breaks,
only blooms.

So ask me again—
how much can I love the one I love?
Enough to become the reason she survives.
Enough to stay.
Enough to walk away.

Enough to live

We are human—
built on hope,
drawn to dreams
we may never reach.

Still, we want.
Still, we wait.

Love—
we crave it like breath,
though it breaks us,
burns us,
leaves us aching.

Yet we return,
bare and believing,
longing for arms
that won't let go.

Why?

Because we are human—
and love
is the wound
we keep calling home

Through Cracks, We Grow
A fault ran deep beneath our feet,
We felt it shift but stayed discreet.
No one dug down to see it through—
We turned away, as people do.

And so began the quiet slide,
As roots forgot how once they tied.

But storms don’t ask if we’re prepared—
They shake the truths we thought we shared.

One small hand reached, then two, then more,
New shoots broke through the cracked old floor.
And in that mess, still raw, still spun,
We saw a hint we’re not yet done.

Okay, so—
I didn’t just walk out.
I ran.
Not in a cool, slow-mo movie way.
More like tripping over a slipper
and accidentally knocking over my own confidence.

From what?
Everything.
The noise, the drama, the people who say
“Can I give you some feedback?”
(Please don’t. I’m fragile.)

I ran from my to-do list,
from “urgent” group calls,
and that one aunty who asks
if I’ve “lost weight or just look sick.”
Honestly, both.

I ran when I saw my old teacher at the grocery store.
I ran when someone asked,
“What’s your 5-year plan?”
I barely have a 5-minute one
and it mostly involves snacks.

Call it immature—
I call it survival.

I didn’t pack much.
Just chips, a charger,
and a carefully folded blanket of denial.

No regrets.
Now I’m somewhere quiet,
where no one talks about promotions,
weddings,
or “what I’ve accomplished lately.”

Just me, my hoodie,
and a growing list of things I pretend don’t exist

I walk through rooms that know my name,
Where silence holds me, not to tame.
No need to speak, no need to be
More than the quiet inside of me.

Some chase the crowd to feel alive,
But I, in stillness, breathe and thrive.
They wonder how I stand alone—
But here, I’ve made a world my own.

The stars don’t ask where I have been,
The night just lets me sink within.
No masks to wear, no roles to play,
Just drifting thoughts that choose to stay.

A cup of tea, a half-read page,
A place untouched by noise or rage.
They fear the hush—I call it home,
Where silence hums and I have grown.