baby you should know I cry better when I’m alone –
and I don’t really like to have to long conversations on the phone,
if it means I don’t see you by tomorrow, and try to hold you close…

but maybe I’m just so good at being alone –
that any time I’m banking on potential love, it’s just a loan

living so low – the hopeless romantic,
and their romantic feelings sitting solo… even when
I’m fearful of love, it’s much scarier being so in love,
but in love all alone
               no one really wants to be alone

never felt as much – thoughts on how this
crush had turned into love; and how it has
me questioning the value of time
             the right love at the wrong time

if a sunflower grows wild in the winter;
would it still find it’s place to shine – we wait
for love on empty paths and our heart’s many
phases; this seems to be the phase of real love
                   the right love at the wrong time

still are any of our moments better than
the ones before… to be honest I doubt that,
when life gives us more – looking forward to
an unwritten future, whatever it paints out as
I find myself so drawn to you, in this
                      right love at the wrong time

the start of the conversation, and you're yelling,
"where has your *** been,"

  he gives you headaches, you're
                addicted to aspirins.

but really what you're asking him,
is whether he was out with the boys relaxing —

he always says, "no, I was just running late"

you tell him straight,
"listen here boy, please stop feeding
me more lies,
              I'm fasting"

bury me alive, and let's just pretend it wasn't suicide
oh, you don't like me, well so do I — there's this ugly version
of myself that I can't deny, so to every girl I date, I always
pray you'll find a better guy

still, I fell in love with the rhythm of your eyes,
cos you always seem to view me as a better guy. to my
surprise, you give me reason to stay alive

but I always tell you not to read too deeply
on some of the things I say. darling I'm only human —
sometimes I make spelling errors, still was it a spell that
you fell in love with me?

      your purpose is love,
                 and I'll protect it with my life.

where are feelings aren’t involved – feels like we’ve evolved
backwards; undecided on whether we’ll do it for gain or the
appearance of love; this life lacks resolve. from a mortal heart,
is this strangely undying immorality – an act of all our sin being
washed off our backs, though pieces of it seeming much harder to
dissolve.

at this gravesite – would the flowers you bring for me often,
be the ones picked out of your heart; or just be a bunch of weeds
to pick on me one last time, where you washed my face with your
crocodile tears in my coffin.

would the angels and I be laughing – knowing that those who
spit on your grave will one day meet you again. you could still
water my grave in spit; I’ll still grow you pretty flowers.
they’ll hate you secretly, yet join you in saying Amen.

it’s okay… we pray for them often, to deal with the hate
they have towards themselves.

flowing as smooth skin, pimple pebbles in between;
the break out of my skin – still I flow freely as I am,
while my tears weigh heavy on the bank’s sand…

still, I’m glad to know how much you enjoy me tickling
in between your toes – wash off the struggles of your heart,
but please don’t use it as an excuse to leave your *******
inside of me

          you found me as a clear river,
   and I've always known where I'm going
                                    let me live a clear life.

these words sit on a page- there's a crush between
a paper and pen. ah, how smitten are they both, as emotions
feel deep as a well; metaphors and meaning start to swell -
here the poem sits, it sits as a work or art, pieces of the
human heart

may it's message shine as the echoes
of common ground, buried in truth, though a hint
of exaggerated lies, brings it up to rise to the reader's eyes.
             perhaps poetry is a whispered truth

an essence of each passing day, these are stories pinned
onto the page - here I am, but here I am searching for
the words to say.

rental cars – parked away ideals across the street; had a bite of the
sweetest dream, but must have chipped a few teeth. backwash waters;
just a taste of love – most of it stayed in the bottle, still I enjoyed that
little sip.

rental cars – parked a little too close to the darkness, under a
billboard sign that gave directions to the light. by day I’m all that the
world’s eyes believe of me; the genius of one’s destiny only revealed
by prayers late at night. but maybe I’m preying more than praying –
believing in all the wrong, hoping to come up with something right.

rental cars – sometimes I feel like I’m on this journey of life with so
many borrowed things, paid for dreams, passenger fears – sticky
gears, imbalanced wheels, a rusty engine, and an unfair lease
agreement, that I pray will expire long before the next few years.

maybe good people do exist –
maybe we fail to see the good in people
maybe we fail to see the good in ourselves.

bites are much harsher than their barks – to those who
haven’t swallowed their pride. to bite on other people’s
ideas and dreams; their ideals prove an ideal meal –                              
                           their wealth, fame, influence, status


surviving on someone else, feeding until your
teeth are boneless - but when it comes to greed,
one finds a way to feed such a need –  
                         zombies with false teeth.

if I went onto smelling everyone's intentions, wouldn't I have a nose
bleed?' yet even the intentions of love can lead me into an injury –
buckled while smitten, with shaking in excitement of two bruised
knees

and perhaps it is love, that you...

let me run my fingers through your thoughts; curls of your dreams
tangled in my fingers. truly I'm at a loss for words – our tethering
feelings, connected to your heart; we are one pulse

we are stars who shine out their love for each other, though we're
sometimes far apart – we are a spark to a flame blaring echoes of love.
and does the world look at us, as two fallen stars who’ve fallen
in love? here in our silence,
                       as I humbly wait for your response.

my heart – a means of transportation;
with loads of weight to carry, passenger love
interests coming in and out
                 “here’s your stop”

sometimes I want to put it in park
but without any of the sparks, my engine
will just turn into rust – can’t turn if off;
someone who can’t let love into their heart
                   “major turn off”

still here’s your turn off, right by the corner
of the tears in my eyes – the point of a journey
is enjoying the scenes of that journey, but it's
a whole lot better when you have someone on
                                           this ride

     right now, it's a lonely drive.

her style is cold figure
kisses that are a heat seeker –
we lock eyes and I’m so eager
     our passion is equal, though I’m

divided

between which parts of her I love the most
"your soul is what holds it all"
in every action she does; smell, taste, sight,
sound or touch –
                   I hear her soul’s call.

and if they love you, they better make it real clear
cause I’ve been blind in love so many times, that
any sight of it now, my eyes quickly press clear

                               love is something I hardly see!

toxicity is just a human thing; cause of all the fumes we
all love to breathe – do our young men have much chose,
we can all live like men, but need to be trained like boys
if the roof over our troubled fires fell down, would the
smoke clear, or would we be forced to breath it all in?

but that’s how we live because we’re troubled, have dreams
inspired by the ideas of others, treat women less, as men
with no father’s, live in our own shadows because we all
hate our true colours –
                                  we just all want to breath.

had a loud smoke break to blare out my ears – always been afraid
of heights; but that high made me face my fears. and I think I
could have heard my tears, though I don’t cry as much, even
when it comes to love – still if you can hear my heart, we must
be that close; I can feel your pulse…

fleeting ecstasies, the moment I knew you’re no longer
next to me... crossing out my heart, my next ex to be
my jagged teeth still left a mark on your skin – on a stone floor
where you were my crush; left crushed by the rock of love
on my robe, and bare feet, I wore your heart, and let you walk
all over in my thoughts…

****, no planet to own, still I gave you,
my world.

to be honest, I really still love yo… hold, select all, clear…
typing… “hey, just wanted to check up on you”

gaze through the depths of my eyes; do you perceive that these
thoughts are birthed from all that's televised – a smile that I carry,
merely just a show!

beyond the sight of the untrained eye lies unfulfilled desires,
for idleness thrives in the lap of plenty - resting my head on idle
thoughts!

dreams, once drove a heart; now they've driven right off the edge
of their thoughts. as the enigma of preserving a youthful body is
still a secret, slipping away eternally into the merciless grasp of
time.

                                        all pieces of myself eternally yearning
                                                               for just a little more time.

what has happened to your hand, its touch has gone so cold – you
don’t hold me as you did before; that first time we fell in love, we
could spend hours of the night tangled to each other. I wasn’t as
pretty as the other girls, still when you held me, you felt a sense of power - an ownership. you never demanded much from me; you understood how shy I got at the beginning – yet that never stopped you from acting so possessive

even in the times I knew you cheated on me – going after those with much smoother skin, and who held that bolder strike; I knew that you’d never forget me – I was your first after all. I gave you the belief in your dreams, gave you confidence to show off your talents, helped you through your struggles, gave you a meaningful way to express your problems. darling I was your unshakable addiction, the mistress who added value to your diction, darling I was with you when you wrote your very first poem


what has happened to your hand, its touch has gone so cold – I hope
you found the right girl, still I’ll love you forever even when you get a
touch of every one of them in their words.





“And I too will love you forever, my first love…
my write, my words, forever my first poem that
came from you… my Eversharp pen."

stole my heart from an empty place –
our love is a battlefield;
fighting not to kiss one last time,
and making me feel like I’m in love
before I even kindled those very sparks –
                              my chest is your fireplace.

his eyes are what graze his meal,
while he pokes at it with a fork, like a child

she asks in a sweet voice, if there’s
anything on his mind…

with a full plate, leftovers of his love
for her, and an empty pride - he finally asks
her

“did you also tell him you love him, right
after I watch you both kiss each other”

splat!

her spoon crushes pieces of food on her plate,
my love, I swear to you, it was only ONE TIME

he smiles, but in a sombre voice he replies,
“funny, with such a passionate kiss I watched,

I’m sure the both of you had a lot of practice”

bending pictures to fit into someone else’s frame –
their life… is it not so beautiful from the viewer’s eyes
in some profound way, they must think of me in the
same kind of way

our pictures are stained,

with shame, pain, loss, hardships, desires, envy, bitterness
but you don’t know this of me… you get to watch the picture
while I painted all its vivid features
I don’t know this of you… cos I watch your picture believing
its much more unique – but you and I are pieces that are

                    incomplete.

a space to breathe – my ID is just a membership card
for the club of my nationality. rationally detailed;
but the details of it aren’t the details of my life

my identity formed in numbers, letters, and regional
placement – a birth verification code into a nameless reality;
social norms, laws to conform, my legitimacy by roadblocks
that is confirmed… how I wish it said I love to write poems

that I'm insecure of my self image in the mirror sometimes,
that ageing with grace, is more of a reminder of all the things
I wish I had done at a younger age – a collection of my desires
and experiences; the love I have to give, love I hope to one
day receive, all the places I hope to dream, a place…

sigh,




                     a space to breathe.

tell me, what's the key to your thoughts
do you have them locked in your locs –

chasing after a touch of those tangled thoughts
running fingers through your hair, but your
dreads are too thick - still that's alright

                      at least I have you tonight.

tell me about a passionate spirit - I decide when not to die,
especially when dealing with suicide. waste myself, hate myself —
feeling like all the worst things. lose my thoughts, I cannot find
my mind; found a cause, held onto that knife

right now, I cannot breathe, yet still… I'll choose to live —
no more suicides.

the sweet scent of flowers
grazes the finely thinned hairs of a lover
while a butterfly flits in their stomach ready
to tie that uncomfortable knot…

                               she has fallen in love.

we are speech and breath
the days are red; painted blushes in the sky
would the Heavens tell us stories of true love –
a message well read?

in the silence of my room… I
dance the loudest,
pray the longest
cry the ugliest,
laugh the modest,
dream the youngest,
stare at empty walls for promise,
break down the strongest,
overthink within a guilty conscience,
play out my scenarios worthy of their flowers
planting fields of doubt for all my anxieties
to have a fruitful harvest

in the silence of my room… I
am truly at my honest.

while pieces of the rain remains
lost on the leaves – my tears hit the ground
slowly after they have painted my face

still more fragile;
thirsty for water as I keep my eyes open

searching for a picture of you, but the cloud's
tears mix with my own, blurring up my glasses

the sun had peeled away itself
blinded by a shade of heavy clouds – heavy emotions
as emotional as I get when I know you’re so far

it's raining and I need you

the dew of my tears feels wet on tight sleeves
the sweat from my brow jumps like water in springtime
and if I could use words to describe my heart – it would
only seal away my lips

my tears are like scattering flowers
blown away by the winds – my lungs are a leafless branch
veiled in such a dry cough; choking away at my pride

nights I’ve dreamt of suicide, to live on
and tell of it lies; it was an empty void that wouldn’t fill
the belly of some hungry wild dog – and if I could speak
a fruitful prophecy for my life, my lips would be the scent of plums.

the scent of love has detached from my heart
a fallen leaf from a tree no longer bearing ripe fruit –
and I rest watching the other’s love blossom
off into the distance

and

an old lover’s kiss carries the scent of love
by the wind in between two lips – a secret kept
between the two… forever, lest they meet again

oh, what a great pain it would be.

Hourglass figures; individuals who invest countless hours crafting
a glass figure. When life tosses you around, you’re bound to shatter –
so meagre!

You repugnant creature, crumbling and oozing into this vessel, as
the grains of sand cascade within all the time you thought your
beauty had bought. You gaze at it, chasing the dazzling glow of
notoriety, unaware that such brilliance will gnaw away at your very
bones, leaving you broken and cold.

Within the heart of every renowned star lies a tumultuous inferno,
a labyrinth of madness that serves as your ultimate reward.

I’m left bare by a grizzly burden of a bear upon my thoughts – heavy,
and hibernating; as the love of my life dashes across the winding road
of my mind – my eyes are headlights illuminating to my dear. My
love for her still endures, even when she poses her ***** questions,
“Would you still love me if I were a worm crawling through the
dirt?” Of course, my heart answers yes, for I often ponder how she so
effortlessly wiggled her way into my life.

“Does this outfit make me look fat?” she asks, and I reply with a
cheerful “no,” yet the the elephant in the room, is always remembering that fateful night when I jokingly answered yes, and I became
irrelevant over her bedside.

Yet, I am the dog, when I **** her off – but it’s okay, for I know I’ll
simply mark my territory in that doghouse. Still, like a devoted pup,
my tail wags with joy at the sound of her voice. And if my attempts to
win her back after a quarrel make her sweet on me again – then I
suppose I’m a bee, and you, my darling, I call Honey.

The reality is, we’ve always recognized the humour in my antics –
and our love is animal, untamed and primal, yet beautifully
restrained by the fervour of our unwavering devotion to one another.

I knew it was late for me when a girl asked me to do
something romantic for her, and I suggested we play
checkers - and if she beat me, I'd know she made
the draft.🤭🤭🤣🤣🤣

I heard the darkness was freeing – for in it you cannot see your
mistakes; and would I be wrong to assume that’s where *******
children are made?

I heard the darkness was freeing – that even if you looked at your
ugly reflection, that part of yourself would always seem so far
away…

       The dark, can be uncomfortable – sometimes; but also warming
   in your worst times – all you can do is withstand the slow erosion
of your happier memories; the darkness has seen me bare; it has
cradled my tears, and for a fleeting moment, it made me feel loved,
only to turn its back and betray.

I heard the darkness was freeing – for when you felt like nothing,
you could be a peaceful nothing in this endless nothing place

I heard the darkness was freeing – it grants me a semblance of
acceptance, allowing me to revel in the very things that bring me
shame – oh, how I ought to flee from this place, yet it soothes the
burdens of the day.

To dream of about suicide is a wage to not wake up dead, a struggle
to rise from the depths of despair. In the heart of a collapsing
mansion, I find myself amidst a vast courtyard, pondering if this
opulence will ever be mine. A magnificent tennis court lies before me,
its fragile barrier barely containing the grotesque monsters lurking
beyond. They cling to the fence, their claws poised to strike, yet I can’t
help but grin, for these fiends are but reflections of my own tortured
psyche.

Where shall I find solace in dreams, when each dream is just a false
awakening loop; each threshold leads me further into a deeper
threshold? On the sixth day of my futile escape, I realize my
confinement is not of brick and mortar, but of the haunting messages
buried within the restless slumber I can never fully embrace.

                                     This life is a false narrative!

Lay me to rest with my pen in hand, for the heavens shall serve
as my canvas, where with each stroke of ink, I will inscribe my
aspirations upon their billowing clouds - visible to all who gaze
skyward.

And as the rain descends, may it cleanse not only the tangible
world but also the abstract doubts that linger in the minds of my observers.

Through the permanence of my written legacy in the sky, let the
wisdom I have gathered extend beyond time and space. May it act
as a guiding beacon for the inexperienced, illuminating the path
forward amidst their uncertainty and ambiguity

                 ...my hand shall hold this immortal pen.

Misery demands a body; heartbreak offers up a heart as a
sacrifice— each coffin yearns for a cherished soul to inhabit, while
debt grins at those ensnared by their own habits, and corporations
thrive on the cravings of the addicts. Time adorns you with the
weight of years, branding you as “old fashioned,” we reach out to the
device of compassion via empathy —witnessing another's tears, we
absorb their grief…

To glimpse another's scars ignites our own anxieties, as we hastily
conceal our own cuts—solitary confinement paints a vivid portrait of
physical loneliness. A multitude of contacts on my phone can never
provide real physical contact. In genuine connection, some among
you only seek to uncover something valuable within us—they'll
transform you into Wi-Fi.

Thrusts of passion that follow our parting leave gaping holes in the
heart— a love that finds fulfilment in affliction; is this the tragic
affliction of love? It means nothing to love beauty, comfort, or success
—we all love things that are pleasing; but aren’t so pleased when
those very things abandon us.

Only the courageous dare to love the aged, the ill, the downtrodden;
the impoverished, the scorned, the grotesque; the unappealing, the
foolish, and the faltering— we all navigate the same turbulent waters,
yet we row at varying paces. Still, life can be astonishingly beautiful
at times – if you choose to see it.

Days drift toward oblivion, as existence bears down upon the cosmos,
consuming us whole— we are a titan sculpted from the remnants of
lost souls, thriving in a vineyard of despair. These obsidian cherry
desires, weeping with the rain, and these lips, forged from the same
flesh, cry out in fervent prayers. “Lord, give us this day,” we plead,
yearning for the sustenance of daily bread. In the shadow of poverty,
joy fades into silence; in sorrow, we hear the haunting echoes of our
shared lament among the trees. In the pools of our sorrow, we gaze
upon untainted skin, the glimmering droplets mirrored in the water.

A miracle bestowed is akin to the sweetness of a first kiss; delicate
and fleeting — as we love holding our breath in anticipation of
another, yet failing to voice our true needs. Yet, life wears us down,
gathering us like discarded clothes— material smiles; we have
devoured the richness of our cherry desires, leaving only a handful
of barren stems in our wake—had you not sought instead this Daily
bread?

But what does daily bread signify for you – the clinking of coins, the
allure of wealth, the visage of another, their utterances, or the depths
of their emotions? Could it be that what you seek is not the bread that
nourishes your soul?

I loved you, you loved me – as our hearts danced in unison;
and when we broke up, I broke a piece of myself forever tethered to
you – where I languished in the seat of butterflies caught in the nets
of my being; now, each passing day, I find myself sinking deeper into
the embrace of that couch.

I thought as much, yet no essence of our love could ever truly be
lost – even in the absence of what we once shared, the echoes of our
past fill me with a bittersweet pride. For you rekindled within me the
essence of love, the warmth of trust, the joy of spontaneous laughter,
the blush ignited by a mere text – not merely crafting imaginary
verses, but living the poetry woven into every word exchanged.

I thought as much, like a relentless storm, yet I have emerged
stronger than the facade I wore in my youth. And for that, I owe you
a debt of gratitude, for you have nurtured a part of me that has a
reason to grow up.

            It never was break up, I just had to grow up!

I add music to my thoughts, just to keep them from growing
darker – my cheeks, feel like lead – weighed down by the burden
of unshed tears; as my ears strain to bear the weight of my silent
anguish. At times, my screams clash like thunder, echoing through
the tempest of my doubts, a relentless storm that looms overhead.
Each flicker of hope I grasp is met by lurking shadows, eager to
shroud my path in darkness—insecurities descend like a nightfall,
one among countless others.

The darkness acts as a hairline, as it recedes beneath a vengeful star,
I cling to the flicker of positivity that still resides within me, yet rage
simmers when my existence goes unnoticed. The Heavens bleed
crimson as I search for solace in my dreams, and where the blood
spills, it crashes against the earth with a deafening roar. My thoughts
drift through a luminous haze, yet I remain a harbinger of chaos,
spiralling through destruction—yearning, a restless spirit, my body
evaporating, and ceasing to exist.

In this turmoil, I am drawn into a surreal realm, where the confines
of my mind transform into a grand stage—twisting and contorting,
twisting itself in these performing gymnastic routines. It is a perpetual
struggle, a delicate dance of cognition, as I pray, I do not tear the
fragile threads of my sanity.

Yet, amidst this chaos, my music rises as a refuge, the pen transforming into my conductor's wand, weaving together the symphony of poetic notes that dance upon the page – I am a poet.

Why cast your doubts upon the notion of love's end, when such a
demise is but a phantom? You wield the ruler of your own judgment,
hoping to measure such a thing. A tumultuous throng of souls
measures their worth against the scale of love— what they can offer,
what they might receive in return; I question whether this is love at
all, or merely a transaction cloaked in loaned affections.

But is it anyone’s business to judge a love — true, unconditional love?
Why do the intricate conditions of our hearts render us inadequate in
the face of the love we can bestow? To quantify love is to diminish its
essence, and to tarnish something of immeasurable worth. And the
conclusion of love is merely a reflection of our own reluctance to
embrace it anew. In a world rife with animosity, there remains a
sanctuary of love, ready to fill even the most overflowing of voids.

                                               There’s no measure to love.

I know there’s more time we could have spent – forever striving to
close a gap between love and loathing; spreading myself thin as the
bridge I am. Parts of me still want to be your man, especially in the
solitude that envelops me, carved into twelve equal pieces; echoing
the essence of what we were and what we might have become.

Gazing into the mirror, at a reflection that won’t stare back; both of
us lost in trying to understand what they’re seeing.

My love for you echoes a silhouette; passions like dark phantoms in a
hushed chamber where you stand across – my heart is lost! What once
felt familiar is now scattered by a tempest, carrying away the words
that once escaped our kiss – two bruised lips, conjoined hips in passion,
now reduced to a mere bruised ego.

Vast eyes begin to flutter open, yet never wide enough for these tears
to escape their confines. I am filled with regret; I should have wept for
you long ago.

Standing as objects in the mirror – do you still objectify the lessons
of your past, reflected in the rear-view? Words are unnecessary now;
your scars have been reopened – haunting illusions.

Resurrected from the place where you once buried your dreams –
down to earth, yes, yet stripped bare by the relentless erosion of
existence. We rise to the thunderous stillness, questioning our very existence, yet finding no answers in man—responding to the chaos
around us, colliding like two wayward planets in this small world.
One day, we shall encounter familiar strangers, yet it will feel
peculiar to label any of them as friends.

In certain moments, I feel as though I am crossing myself out beneath
the weight of the cross, feeling an emptiness within— "survivor's
guilt"?

No… that guilt placed upon me has been paid already, not by my own
cost – yet for the cost of something more profound. And I willingly
surrender myself to a purpose that transcended death, then to endure
a life filled with trivialities, only to feel nothing until the very end.

                         That profound purpose is… my faith.

And so, around pretty women, one must put their mind on their
hip — and also keep their heart on their mind, for when they think
about those feelings. You can get crushed by a crush, yet it is you
alone who bears the burden of its sting— intuition, should be carried
like a sickness, and should you cough, let it out on the world as a bit
of wisdom.

Cos love ensnares us all, yet we remain oblivious to the means of an
escape from it – until the moment arrives when the sweetness of affection turns sour; a love tainted... when you both become so sick of
each other, that every kiss tastes a bit like *****.


                                            A bitter aftertaste that lingers of regret.

Words… are lost by touch; perhaps I am talking too much… that
much is clear – a tongue testing its own fortune. The moment I beheld
your visage, a weight settled upon my skin, while the fragrance of
your skin dug tremors through my heart – a quiver igniting up to the
nerves at my fingertips. Our hands met with a less than firm embrace – yet deep down, I yearned for a hug, to ascend the staircase of your
neck and find sanctuary in the chamber of your lips.

Like a swarm of bees drawn to a blossom, seeking the sweet nectar of
connection – our fleeting moments together ignited thoughts of
seizing the flower of time, “she’ll love me, she loves me now,” believing it’s merely a matter of time.

I hear you summon my name; it resonates like a hymn of adoration –
your celestial presence beckoning me into the realm of your words.
And so, we embark once more, at the crossroads of language where I
find myself either bereft of expression or talking too much … you
know what, let’s abandon the chatter and kiss instead, for our hearts
speak a language far more profound. I’ve been overthinking too much.

Because theses dreams open the door; I have a firmly closed mind,
shut against the idea of leaving them behind. I’ve seen some desperately trying to walk their own path of destiny – to find that every path circles back to where you began.

Empathy strips the heart bare, for mercy to allow us to feel the pain of
others. In truth, we could all share the same pain, even those we
consider foes; especially them – for they too reflect a fragment of our
own struggles, but only in the currency of hatred; much like paying
a fraction of rent. Evil is built by the very castles we showcase in the
realm of the Devil’s kingdom.

While knowing what it feels like to be healed, it’s first by admitting
your own afflictions— darkness only breeds darkness, just as light
nurtures light; dignity is through the journey of self-discovery. "
Know your worth," the tale unfolds, and thus, the lives we lead shape
the pivotal choice: do we persist in our quest to uplift others, or do we
seek solace in our own suffering, turning a blind eye to the anguish
that binds us all?

A larger friendship circle: the terror of making yourself new friends,
looms larger when it feels you’re just making yourself new problems.
It’s haunting to hear others revel in tales of passion, people
boasting about making love, but never mentions on making up.

Ah, the daily charade of donning a flawless smile – the reluctant
application of makeup. And here’s the most piercing question in the
air heavy: “When was the last time you felt a gentle touch?”

The deafening silence that responds back, “Does the touch of
sadness still count?”

Fear not, dear child – you have blossomed into adulthood, you’re all
grown up, and have grown enough to know how to count. Count on
knowing things WILL one day work out. Stop yourself from counting
yourself out…

                                  A personal mantra I whisper to myself.