Poetry brewed from ink, moonlight, and a dash of mischief.
Words to hex your heart, heal your soul, and haunt you in the loveliest way.
Not just a page
A heart like a lantern in winter’s dark,
Soft, but burning with a steady spark.
You walk through storms with a quiet grace,
Holding the world in your woven embrace.
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In code and crochet, your fingers weave
Websites, dreams, and what you believe.
You craft from shadows and candlelight,
Making the fractured feel stitched just right.
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Past childhood echoes and voices cold,
You’ve written your story in letters bold.
A sister, a mother, a friend who stays,
Through tangled nights and golden days.
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You take the broken, the bent, the small.
And find the beauty that’s in it all.
Witch of wisdom, of screen and loom,
Turning fear into flowers that bloom.
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Your name is a page, but your life’s a book.
And the world is brighter each time we look.
Dungeon Weaver
With maps like constellations sprawled in my mind,
I spin worlds from whispers the dice may find.
Rivers bend at the turn of my hand,
Mountains rise where the heroes stand.
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I forge dark halls where shadows creep,
And scatter secrets the bold may reap.
Every villain’s smirk, every hero’s plea,
Is a thread in the tapestry only I see.
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I paint with plot twists, I sculpt with fear,
I let laughter and gasps be the music I hear.
Through battles and bargains, I guide their quest,
The keeper of fates, the unwelcome guest.
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For in this grand game, I’m the quiet unseen—
The dreamer who breathes life into the scene.
The Unseen Heroes
From tangled wires to tangled code,
You walk the unseen, humming road.
A translator between man and machine,
Making the messy run smooth and clean.
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You wield patience like a sharpened blade,
Through frozen screens and systems frayed.
Each click and keystroke, a quiet spell,
Turning “It’s broken” into “It works well.”
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But you’re more than the one they call to save—
You’re a builder of futures, steady and brave.
Bridging the world of data and dreams,
With a mind that hums in electric streams.
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And still, in your hands, the human remains—
For tech without heart is just empty chains.
Day Dreams and Daisys
I dream of the day I see that sweet bouquet—
Full of color, of beauty, and maybe a few roses.
Lilies, lilacs, and lotus too, if I had my way,
Tied with a ribbon, whichever my love proposes.
I dream of the day when talk is simple,
Not filled with challenge, aggression, or violence.
Just hobbies, home-life, and hopes—something civil,
Instead of endless ups and downs, fighting or silence.
Perhaps just one flower, a single red rose.
Keep the thorns, the pricks, the pain—place it in water.
Even with blood on our hands, we pray that it grows.
Is love a sacrifice, spilled across the altar?
It was a dream, reshaped into expectation,
Held over her head by those who never earned it—
Power, control, and a false reputation,
Seized by people with no soul, no stone, no wit.
I dream of the day I’m simply respected—
Not because I’m lesser, or weak in comparison.
But genuine, passionate, wholly unexpected:
To feel like a lady beside a true gentleman.
Perhaps roses ask too much—then give me the pain.
Lilies or lilacs—any flower will do.
I’ll drive, I’ll fly, I’ll take any train,
If that’s what it takes to stay away from you.
Passing Heredity
Be involved, be smart—
Work hard, but still follow your heart.
The decision? That’s the hardest part.
So I’ll pray—at least it’s a start.
Question: have you seen the sunrise,
Or love in a child’s eyes?
Watched a flower drop its last petal and die?
Held your mother close as she cries?
I bet not—we take it for granted.
We can’t cope with being candid.
We obey when demanded—
We all know fight or flight,
But who knows what’s right?
We all can see, but lack the sight—
I’m hard-working, I’m smart,
But I can’t seem to follow my heart.
There’s no easy way to start,
I try to follow my dreams,
I build little schemes,
But my head is filled with screams.
I pray it’s just me, not my genes.
I hope for a better life for my children—
That they cherish the gifts they’re given.
I hope they take the time to listen,
For all they’ll inherit is my blurry vision.
Define Human
People shouldn’t be defined by society—
That only feeds our anxiety.
We’re told who to love, and when,
Who’s a one, and who’s a ten.
We judge through another’s opinion,
Every move is weighed by some civilian.
And when push finally comes to shove,
We forget the meaning of love.
Until only sadness remains—
And we shrivel in the madness,
Drown in the vastness of blackness.
When will society draw the line?
When will our children finally be fine?
When will we stop fighting for death—
And start knowing what it means to live?
Start reveling in the glory of creation,
Not waging war for our own damnation.
Sleepless
She’s afraid to let her guard down.
In depression, every ache sharpens.
She stays awake through the night,
Because the second she closes her eyes
She’s vulnerable—
To memory,
To the shadows where false white knights hide,
To the self she keeps buried inside.
She hides behind tired eyes,
Drowning thoughts with busyness,
With nervous habits.
Silently panicking—
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Nothing’s wrong.
She isn’t hurt.
And yet—she is terrified of sleep.
Terrified to feel again.
She asks herself: What was his name?
The one who broke her heart,
Who made her believe she wasn’t enough,
Who whispered she would never be better—
Never be herself.
Who would do that?
She stares at the hand she’s been dealt.
Her whole life spent in shadows,
Afraid of the light.
And now—when she finally finds it,
She runs back to insomnia.
Because sleep reminds her
She could be more.
Sleep holds the questions
She’s too afraid to ask—
Will she ever be enough
For the expectations of everyone else?
The Sound of a Soul
The little girl in the mirror
Drops silent bombs from the mosques of her skin,
Her prayers ignite as screams of misery.
She carves ink into her body,
Vibrant, violent—
Turning anguish into bullets,
Bravery into blood.
Not a sound escapes her lips.
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She is space.
And space is never silent.
Every wavelength quivers,
Unseen yet alive—
Vibrations rippling through bone and marrow,
Like the heartbeat of a star,
Even when galaxies away.
Like the drumbeat a deaf man feels,
The universe hums inside her.
Her silence is not absence—
It is pressure, it is storm,
The weight of a thousand unspoken wars.
Her body is an archive of battles,
Her skin, a scripture of scars.
She is both wound and weapon,
Both scream and sanctuary.
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And though the world cannot hear her,
They will feel her.
The Weight of Four Walls
Home—such an interesting word, don’t you think?
It isn’t just a place to be,
not only what we give or take.
Home bends and shifts with time,
with location, with a person’s presence.
It is never fixed, never absolute.
We reach for words to define what cannot be held,
to cage the ungraspable in syllables,
pretending that definitions carry weight.
Yet words are nothing more
than letters stitched together,
fragile constructs we lean on,
hoping they can hold the shape of meaning.
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And still, we call it Home.
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But home does not always mean safe.
For some, it is warmth, a steady anchor,
a place where the air remembers their name.
For others, it is a battlefield,
walls that echo with silence sharper than screams,
a roof that shelters storms instead of shielding from them.
Home can be sanctuary,
or it can be a cage.
It is not one thing—it never has been.
It is relative, slippery, shifting like light on water.
Home can be a body, a lover, a streetlight at midnight.
It can be the place you run to,
or the very place you run from.
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Perhaps that’s why we keep chasing it—
because home is not a location,
but a question we carry,
hoping one day the answer will stay.