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Pain, Prayer, Poetry

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It hurts in too many places to name properly And somehow between the ache and the silence words start forming As if the body is trying to explain itself to an invisible unavailable audience.. As if the night itself has leaned close to listen As if every nerve is a small lamp flickering for a presence it remembers. The pain keeps knocking from within.. not to be cured, but to be known.  Like a river in the dark, searching for the sea it has never seen yet cannot forget. What language does the body speak when no one is there to answer? It trembles, burns and calls softly like a prayer that does not know who it is meant for and still rises.  Somewhere the sky is opening its quiet blue wounds Somewhere the wind is carrying a name it will never reach And here in this small, aching body, a universe gathers at the edge of tears Waiting not for answers just for arms that feel like home. And until then the pain will keep turning into words.. and the words into a kind of love.. that has...
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Sober, speckled, almost smiling

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The Blue Tiger  arrived without celebration,  No riot of colour, no carnival song,  Carrying blues diluted by dusk, and an unmistaken silence along.  Neatly folded around restraint, Wearing spots like unfinished thoughts on wings that had learned to whisper stories of fates they fought. It did not dance nor weep or cry.. but if sadness had manners, this is how it would sit: balanced on a leaf, pretending not to stay long. The playful sunshine called it to be brighter.. promising joy on a fair sky   But it declined politely and stayed grounded  "Some hearts, are meant not to dazzle or lure, but only to endure."    
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Spring ding ing..

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And so came spring Not sudden  But like a DING! I’m tired, but not in a way that aches. More like a lamp left ON at dawn.. still glowing, just done arguing with the dark. More chilled out now, Just an audience of the madness.. The world ablaze But I'm in my haze.. No heckling, no clapping, just letting the scenes pass between sips of air.. Tonight, I sit back, too bored to panic, too aware to run.. Let others have the pomp and fame... while the noise forgets my name. Not giving up, I'm just resting the soul. -_-
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REBELLION, but in soft blur

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I was never meant to stay whole... not in a world that survives by taking. This is a time that uses people quickly and moves on without looking back. It asks for patience, effort, care, and offers little shelter in return.  Being useful here is a pain. It wears you down, leaves you tired in places others cannot reach, teaches you how easily kindness is mistaken for availability. The hurt is real. It comes from being relied upon but not protected, from giving steadily while learning how disposable that giving can be. And yet, choosing to keep meaning and purpose alive is Rebellion. Not hardening. Not becoming cruel in return. But refusing to let harm decide who you become. Time thins us. Experience scars us. But the tear is where the light pass through. So if something still shines after being used, it is not weakness..it is endurance. In the present world, beauty is not in staying untouched. It is in being hurt, healing slowly, and still allowing yourself to glow. >_< 
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Triaging

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This world is a hospital spinning through light years.. With too few beds  for eight billion wounds. Some fight hunger. Some fight heartbreak. Some fight for the environment  And for animals hurting quietly. Different battles.. Same emergency. Bodies matter. Minds matter. Every life that feels matters. One planet. One health. One chance to stay kind. It's no time to ration empathy. There's no choice to lock any ward. Because indifference is the real killer. >_<
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Scraps

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  A scrap of light clings to what’s left of me, the smallest remnant of warmth refusing to let go, shivering at the edge of a dim and indifferent world. A torn feather stuck between night and blur, caught in the quiet where clarity dissolves, holding a fragile sliver of borrowed glow as if it remembers a sky it no longer belongs to. Even broken things shimmer.. not out of strength but out of instinct, but out of the love it once held.. out of the last defiance that survives inside when the darkness forgets for a moment to swallow them whole. -_-
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The Stillness Beneath

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And I sit still where the sky meets the sea. The rain remembers what I tried to forget. Light trembles, the sea hums. My shadow dissolves, And I let it go. No names, no sound, just ache, and ground. I am void, I am the wound. I am the prayer,  Waiting to be found.  !_!
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Supernova

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I was made of tides, not stones, the moon hums beneath my bones. Each heartbeat whispers gravity’s song, each breath pleads softly, “let me belong.” You drift away, your orbit steady, your calm: a cloud... cluttery, cold and unready. While I unravel, thread by thread, a nebula bleeding gold instead. Love to me was never disguise, it’s oxygen drawn from endless skies. The hush between thoughts, the tender trust, the warmth that turns all fears to dust. They say I feel too much, too loud, too wide, but galaxies bloom where my tears reside. To burn, to ache, to rise from pain, to live, not weaken, that’s my chain. And even when forsaken by light, I shimmer through the endless night. Soft, yet fierce, my heart stays bold, a supernova that won’t turn cold. I do not seek what fades above; I am the pulse, the proof of love. --_--
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The Forest

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It's winter again, with a dream of spring. I stand with shaky feet on the cold loose soil. Bare branches reaching for a sky I cannot touch, Roots drinking quietly beneath the frost. Storms have fallen, trees split. I sway,  Absorb, endure, and wait. From the soil of pain, tiny shoots rise up.. Green, stubborn, unafraid. Dry leaves carpet the ground And feed the roots of what will rise again. I am not whole but life pulses in me, Silent, steady, unstoppable. Seasons will turn. Time will pass. And when the sun finds me again, I will bloom not because I am perfect, but because I am alive. --_--
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The faceless god

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  Time is the faceless god. It walks between galaxies, stirring the stars like embers in a dying fire. One moment, you are the golden child of dawn; the next, you kneel in the temple of midnight, offering your light as sacrifice. It pulls silk from the air, weaving dawn into dusk without a sound. A single breath, and you are the sunlight spilled across a meadow; the next, you are the shadow trembling beneath its own tree. It grows kingdoms in the palms of your hands, then turns your grip to sand, watching the empires slip through your fingers with a smile you will never see. Love is its greatest trick. A warm sun it lends you for a season, only to tilt the world and watch your summer turn to frost. The arms you thought were forever become shadows that pass you like fever. Time never steals. It only trades. Miracles for moments. Hearts for spades. -_-
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