Strength is not a raging river or a roaring tiger.
Strength is bravery in small, significant things.
Even the smallest things can be significant.
Importance is not decided by money or popularity.
It is chosen by value, meaning, and purpose.
We are not brought into this world only to consume.
We are given the strength to create and choose.
Choose strength every time you are given a choice.
The hardest decisions are the most important, and
Great heights are best seen from your lowest point.

I see it time and time again
that beauty’s made by what is spent.
 
A beauty that demands a price
with outer glow and inner ice.
 
And observation seems to tell
it’s only as deep as the well,
 
for come the day the well runs dry…
such beauty simply waves goodbye.

I looked into her Eyes full of sparkle and wonder her mind so full of possibilities and love It spills out all around her. A me from before the world took my voice and crushed me. I promised her the world with one foot outside of her pink polka dot room full of innocence.

With every step I took the air grew colder and my words grew teeth.
I used to hear her cry
Begging me to stop
that I can come back
“there’s beauty in being soft”
enjoy the thunderstorm as it passes
Even with all the damage that it leaves together, We can find the beauty in the rain its smell the refreshment of the cold breeze.

But she doesn't know she is safe in that room because I locked the door and boarded up the windows.
they told me she is too soft.
The world is too cruel for her to be safe.
Her skin bleeds when it hits the outside air. Just pain comes when she is out, and there is no beauty in pain, only suffering.

Her words have become white noise as I wander this condemned house alone. I almost missed... I almost missed “When is the last time you took a moment to look outside?” Barely a whisper on the other side of my childhood door, which caught me off guard because they were never whispered before. She always roared. I'm hit with the crushing realization. Oh no, what have I done to her.  

I stole her voice in trying to keep it for me. Lost in this never ending mazes of who I’m suppose to be.

Her words slowly grow louder, almost as if all she needs is to be seen.
“The storm is gone now, and the birds have began to sing.”
Her words grow bolder as if she finally found her way to be free.
“You abandoned both of us for the sake of me, but the storm has passed, and I promise if you just listen, you can hear the birds sing.” Somehow her hand finds mine on the other side of the door-a connection we have both been searching for.
For the first time I could hear the little birds, even if far off and faint.
“Let me out, unlock this door, and maybe after all this time we can find what we have been searching for”
in that moment I swear I can hear the bird that sings of hope sitting just outside the front door
Wondering if this the moment we have been waiting for to rip this house down board by board.
Rebuilding together to be so much more.

In my late hunger I listen to the swirl of night traffic, until
it dies around the curb— recedes into remembrance,

to that melting space inside— the sound
matching the tempo of my lowest need,

getting lost in the evening’s reflection—
ice memories melting to water,

everything moving to my traffic flow—
to the single track of my inside voice.

On the one hand-
A scream- a shout: MAKE MONEY

On the other one-
Why? What for? Who asks this?

It isn't this simple, it
Really is that simple.

I would to nothing more do,
Than fill pages with thought, lyrics and

Amuse me, amuse you.
Yes, it is true.

I am filled here-
With the space to see how to make-

Yet, neither you nor i,
Truly, do wish to- see-

What it is we could amount
To be-

Leave it aside, brush it now.
What more is to be said,

About the blind poetry-
The blind poetry of-

Broken spirit
Its venom leaks out
Every word is a storm
Every silence is cold
In the end
Not every day is scheduled to be the same
Our hearts are just puppets in a cruel game of emotions
Maybe it's just a lost love
Gentle dirt sent from above
But the wound was as deep as a flying bullet
To see blood—some people enjoy it
But patience remains my quiet guide
Let the world tempt you, let suffering remain
I will wear defeat
My wounds are like a crown
Loss of the power that won't give up

How would I know I’m not a heavy-weight,
A burden those I love could start to hate?
Each word I speak feels like a sharpened stone,
Thrown into hearts that ache, yet not my own.

How can I be sure their light stays intact,
Unstained by shadows that my soul attracts?
What if my truths are daggers they can’t bear,
And I leave scars in places unaware?

How would I know their kindness doesn’t fade,
Eroded by the cost of love they’ve paid?
What if my pain becomes the thing they fear,
A haunting voice that whispers when I’m near?

How can I trust they’d hold their steady ground,
When I pull them to where I can’t be found?
What if my sorrow seeps into their core,
And they’re not who they were, not anymore?

What if I speak, and silence fills the air,
A proof their patience vanished unaware?
Do they resent the weight my words impose,
Or wish I’d keep my sadness undisclosed?

How would I know they won’t begin to flee,
Escaping from the heaviness of me?
What if their love gives out beneath the strain,
And all I’ve left are echoes of my pain?

I’m torn between the need to reach and hide,
Unsure if they can stand what’s locked inside.
Am I a poison slowly spreading through,
Or just a soul too lost to find the truth?

That’s why I think it’s better left this way,
Alone with all the words I’ll never say.
To die with silence wrapped around my chest,
And free them from the weight of my unrest.

If a bad, unsettling thing is taking place,  
Making me humiliating in my inner space,  
At some boiling, anxious pace.  
Holding tightly, proving biased case,  
Losing the sight of self-knowing’s sole grace.  
I’m just consolidating my inner defined haze,  
To make things appear true in my defined chase,  
To claim my augury true at every place.  
Handling, exploiting inner flowing, mazy pace,  
Imagining to feel hard the defined charm to chase.  
Knowing this decision of self-harass,  
But this is so smothering, exhausting case for himself.  
Where the world is just the consolidating of inner defined haze,  
Blaming world and stuff to be constructing mess.  
My face, my fears, guilty gears and all phrase  
Are working only to fulfill imagined embrace.  
Even this is something been given to me by some random accidental bass,  
Originating from some muddy collision on rough surface.  
This blaze has, if you see, innumerable face,  
None of which has their own eyes but handed gaze.  
While there are either none or all sovereign hands,  
Just like cloudy shapes, random patterns intermingled colors have forms in void names.