I try to speak, and my tongue tries to run,
and tends to trip when strong words come.

The rhythm and pace of his steps taste
like sweet songs that almost land with grace—
into your ears. But hopefully, you hear
the plopping of boots that my tongue tied loose.

Even when he trips and falls,
know that his words still risk it all.

When his dance becomes daring,
and his stutter turns to swearing,
his beat becomes apparent—

because no words, and no walk,
no pucker nor path
could portray the way my tongue trips up
taking to you at last.

You could have given up,
but you kept on going.
You could have seen obstacles,
but you called them adventures.
You could have called them weeds,
but instead you called them wildflowers.
You could have died a caterpillar,
but you fought on to be a butterfly.
You could have denied yourself goodness,
but instead you chose to show
yourself self-love. You could have defined
yourself by the dark days, but instead
through them you realised your light.

Be brave.
You already are.
Look at what you've made it through.
The wounds of your past have healed.
The seemingly endless chapter has ended,
And those bruises have faded.
The battle, you survived,
And you are still here.
Be brave.

I will rise
After every fall.
I will rise
And stand tall.

I will rise
Over the wall.
I will rise
Above them all.

Like the sun,
Which never dies.
Though sets every night,
Every day it does rise.

Like the ocean
Whose tides
Many times they are down,
But invariably they rise.

Like the trees,
From seeds they arise,
And heights great
They rise and rise.

After falling once,
Twice and thrice,
Again and again
I will rise and rise.

I will rise
After every fall.
After every fall
I will rise.

Somethings are just golden,
Even if gold doesn't stay,
Somethings don't fade away.

I am golden,
An idea that refuses to fade,
I am brave.

The shadows gaze silently, cloaking me in divorce clothes
–splitting my mind in two. Nobody is innocent; for even
in the innocent eyes of a child, they must grow up –
Certainly no exception to this rule. At times, I find myself
draining the essence of my dreams, spiralling into a vortex
of procrastination, throwing my efforts down the drain.

Life is a canvas, and the art of existence is wrought with
suffering – the masterpiece of my story will be a portrait
painted with my blood, sweat, and tears, left as a haunting
Stain.

Yet, how we cast judgment upon the suicidal for not being
brave– praising the brave for flirting with the precipice of
risking their lives. As a true master of their courage; are
those who confront their deepest fears and still strive to
soar beyond them.

Still, I’ll walk through night as a strange person follows me;
only to discover that the shadows watching silently are
merely the echoes of my own regrets.

Asking myself where do I fall in people's eyes
–brave or suicidal...

but,
I think it's a brave thing to do,
when you start something new.
allowing the past to assist/not lead,
admitting you're not the best/ but trying to be,
therein lies true strength/ authentic humility.
not to disrespect/ just to overcome,
the need for perfection/ the rush to get it done.
because in poetry we can say it,
in any which way we want.