Tag: PersonalGrowth

  • BRIEF WARMTH, LONG ECHO.

    Just another season passing through đź–¤

  • BIRTHDAYS

    Birthdays,
    rolling in faster every year,
    dragging their long shadows behind them.

    Something terrible
    always circles back.

    The innocence fled early,
    left me sleepless
    in a cold room of memories turned nightmares.

    I still hear younger laughter
    through half-lit hallways, like ghosts through another house—


    sugar-stained fingers, small hands,
    bright candles,
    warm lights in winter windows.
    The world untouched by dread.


    Time bruises in unknowing ways.

    Memory decays softly.

    Now I grow flowers alone,
    watering them with versions of myself I no longer recognize.

    No candles to burn.
    Only silence waiting in the walls.

    Getting older
    feels like watching winter
    move into the bones.

  • QUIET SURVIVAL

    I spent years
    waiting for grief
    to come roaring back through the door.

    Instead it learned to sit beside me.

    Never gone,
    only softer now,
    lingering like an old friend waiting across the table.

    The years no longer howl
    like they used to.

    Light returns slowly,
    through the kitchen windows,
    laying gold across unwashed dishes
    and half-watered plants.


    Half-warm coffee.
    Rain against the garden.
    The cat asleep nearby.
    My name resting safely in my own hands.

    The light asks nothing of me.

    There are still nights
    where memory returns like weather,
    slow thunder in the bones,
    old wounds opening their tired mouths—

    but it passes.

    I no longer confuse peace with emptiness.

    No one tells you,
    how strange it feels
    when your life finally stops hurting.


    How silence itself
    can make you weep.

    Some wounds never vanish.
    They simply loosen their grip.

    The world grows around it.


    Now the winters arrive gently.
    Not as punishment—
    just another season passing through.

  • BONES AND ASH


    I am made of bone
    and a restless mind.

    Coffee gone cold.
    Cigarette to ash.

    Watching the world
    pass
    without me.

    I got too good at goodbyes.

    Left pieces of myself
    in every one.

    Something in me
    didn’t survive them.

    Now I find my own way
    through what’s left of me.

  • TURN INWARD

    The will to go on
    slowly fades.

    Trapped inside your body.

    The void deepens—
    obsidian.

    Demons closing in,
    tasting the win.

    And you—
    blade in hand—
    turn inward.

  • WATCHING IT CHANGE

    Hues of soft flame
    burning through the sky.

    Pink whispers.
    Orange bleeding through.

    Blues fade—
    clouds turn.

    Then
    midnight
    takes it all.

    And I stay
    to watch it
    become something else.

  • JUST ENOUGH

    I stayed standing
    Not steady—
    Just enough
    to pass as strength.

    Bending quietly.

    Hands shaking.

    Mind slipping—
    just enough to lose hold.

    No one noticed
    how close I was.

  • they never stop running—until they crash.

  • And some things stay–quiet, but certain.

  • INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS

    I take my intrusive thoughts
    out for walks—
    like they belong to me.

    They don’t leave.
    They don’t quiet.

    I try to sleep them off,
    but they follow me there too.

    Every night,
    the same loop—

    no exit.

  • I REMEMBER


    I remember every word 
    that cut me open.

    I remember every fire 
    that left more 
    than it burned.

    I remember the void 
    that kept growing 
    until there was nothing else.

    I remember the storm 
    that almost took me—

    almost.

    I remember every hit, 
    every mark. 
    every scar—

    inside 
    and out.

  • We don’t see what’s waiting.

  • IN MY TRENCHES

    In my trenches–
    this haunted house
    eats me whole.

    Ghosts of memory
    wander.

    Whispers in the walls.

    My mind—
    a forbidden dungeon
    no one enters.


    Something inside
    won’t stay still.

    Dead eyes.

    On the floor again.

  • Daffodils and daisies
    were meant to bloom—

    nothing did.

    abandoned.

    what remains?

  • BUILT IN RUIN

    Holding roses,
    bleeding out on the floor—

    the witching hour waits,
    voices at the door.

    my love,
    built in ruin,

    wounded.

    there’s blood in the water—

    and still
    I ruin more.