On my last breath,
I begged the night for a saviour—
but the darkness stayed quiet.
No one came.
The cold laid the truth bare:
in the chaos, in the ruins,
no one is coming
to pull you from your wreckage.
Your salvation is yours.
You save yourself—
or don’t rise.
Regrowth is not gentle.
I died at midnight—
A slow bleed,
crying spells,
fractures beneath the surface.
Learning to grow
in the soil of last year’s failures—
they are lessons,
not a death sentence.
I shed the stories that kept me small,
shut the doors that fed the dark.
I make peace with sunlight,
and the quiet pull of moonlit nights.
I embrace the changes—
soft,
loud,
necessary.
I hold the tender moments.
I love—despite the madness.
Revival.
I want to know the truth of your soul,
Your strength, your story,
The fire that drives your heartbeat forward through the night.
I’m not afraid of the monsters you carry—
The rage born of old wounds, the scars,
The hurt forged in your bones.
I am no stranger to the dark underworld;
My monsters, my oldest companions—
Linger like background noise that refuses to die away.
But we are not our monsters;
We are what we create from the mess they leave behind.
Show me the artworks of your life.
Create some magic with me.
As thunder cracks and the heavens break
We are pulled back into each other’s storm,
Drawn by a tether neither of us can name.
Our cords run deep.
We search for the centre calm – the fragile quiet buried beneath all this noise.
For the home of belonging in each other’s heart.
Chaos surrounds us, chaos tests us,
Thunder pressing its questions hard against our ribs.
Yet in the wreckage, we reach for each other first.
Searching, finding each other
In the stars,
In the dark of the night,
In the rain and the cold,
And in the last flicker of the flame.
Always returning, always pulled back in.
Hold my hand and let it rain,
You are mine –
through every storm,
in every lifetime that finds us again.
Fallen tears,
coffee stains.
Sunlight
cracks through the window—
soft,
but unforgiving.
Heaven is a state of mind.
Hell lives in the heart.
And letting go
never leaves clean.
I aimed for red—
sunset bleeding orange and fire,
a perfect contrast.
Then it changed.
Green.
I almost didn’t take the shot.
But I did.
And now I see more than I planned—
not colour,
but a path.
A horizon waiting.
We spend so long waiting for the perfect red,
the perfect moment,
the perfect sign—
but life doesn’t wait.
It turns green.
And every green light
leads to the horizon.
So go.
Let them be who they pretend to be,
and let them fall.
Leave them to their misery,
their hollow claims and borrowed skin.
Negativity, truth, and karma
will swallow them whole.
For they are their own demon,
their own slow demise.
True colours fracture through the mask,
the costume stained beyond repair.
They hate the mirror of their own heart,
so they hide inside a stranger’s face.
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