God.....
i'm tired.
not just the kind of tired a nap can fix 
but bone, deep, soul, worn,
heart aching tired.

tired of pretending I’m okay
with empty shampoo bottles
and 20 rand dreams.
tired of asking,
tired of needing,
tired of saying “i’m sorry to ask again…”
just for a crumb
of what should never feel like too much.

why do i always have to beg
to feel human?

why can't someone just… notice?
see the cracks in my voice,
the ache in my silence,
the hunger in my smile.
why can’t help come without
a sermon, a price, a sigh?
why must my dignity
be the currency?

i know it’s my fault.
i carry that.
every fucking day.
but does that mean i deserve
to be punished for it
in every small way?

i hate money.
but i can’t breathe without it.
i hate the way it decides
who sleeps warm,
who gets meds,
who gets to smile in a new dress
instead of walking past it
like it never called her name.

i want to say yes
when my kids need something.
i want to stop calculating costs
in tears and shame.
i want to buy a snack for the table
and not sit there empty-handed,
pretending i’m full
on nothing but sorrow.

and i wish,
God, i wish ,
i could get like she does.
just receive.
without guilt clawing down my throat.
without rehearsing how to make myself smaller,
more pitiful,
more deserving.

i wish i could be given to
without becoming a debt.
without shrinking in gratitude.
without feeling like a burden.

i wish someone looked at me
and thought,
"she needs this,"
and gave
just because.
not because i begged,
not because i explained,
not because i earned it
through humiliation.

i see her,
how she’s loved out loud,
how the world just hands her things,
gifts wrapped in ease,
as if kindness was her birthright.

and i ache.
because i know I’ll have to write
an essay of my pain
just to be heard.
and even then,
they’ll say,
"you’re strong, you’ll get through it."

i don’t want to be strong.
i want to rest.
i want to fall apart
without the world falling on me.
i want to be held
without asking to be.
i want to feel chosen
even when I have nothing left to offer.

i want to stop fighting.
not just the bills,
the aching body,
the guilt,
but the war in my mind
that whispers,
"you are too much and never enough."

i’m tired of waking up
just to survive.
of scraping joy
from a world that keeps taking.

i’m tired of crying quietly,
tired of hiding,
tired of the mask,
tired of holding it all in
so no one feels guilty
for walking past me.

i’m tired.
God if you hear me 
i’m so,
tired.

Some days, I swear I’m made of glass,  
cracked but still pretending to shine.  
I smile like the pieces fit,  
even when I feel the sharp edges inside.  

The world says,  
"you're so strong,"  
but they don’t see the glue  
I use just to get out of bed.  

I’m stitched with whispers and weary breaths,  
patched together by coffee and crying in silence.  
There’s a scream trapped in my throat  
and a storm tucked behind my eyes.  

But still,  
I show up.  
Still,  
I breathe.  
Still,  
I keep walking this trembling path,  
barefoot, bleeding,  
and somehow,  
still here.  

No one sees the fractures I hide,  
the silent fractures running deep.  
Behind every smile,  
beneath every laugh,  
lie fissures no one knows exist.  

I wear my mask, flawless and bright,  
but inside, the pieces shift and slide.  
The ground beneath me isn’t steady,  
it’s crumbling, bit by bit, unseen.  

I hold my breath, afraid to break,  
trembling like a glass about to fall.  
But the cracks don’t echo,  
they don’t scream,  
they only whisper their slow decay.  

If you looked close enough,  
you’d see the shards of me scattered,  
but I am the master of concealment,  
a quiet storm beneath calm skin.  

And still,  
I keep walking,  
praying the surface holds  
though the cracks spread wide  
beneath my feet.  

Every step feels like the last,  
like one more breath might tip the scale.  
I'm standing on a thread,  
a sliver of strength between collapse and courage.  

The world keeps spinning  
but I’ve gone still,  
frozen on this edge  
where pain and survival blur.  

I wake up tired from pretending,  
from holding in tears with shaky hands.  
No one sees how close I am  
to letting it all slip away.  

They see my smile,  
but not the cliff behind my eyes.  
They hear my words,  
but not the scream beneath my breath.  

I’m not strong,  
I’m stubborn.  
Not brave,  
just afraid to fall where no one will catch me.  

There’s a war in my chest,  
one side begging to hold on,  
the other whispering,  
“let go.”  

And still, I stay here,  
one heartbeat from the edge,  
wobbling,  
but somehow,  
still here.  

My hands don’t tremble where you can see,  
but inside, I quake like thunder in a bottle.  
My heart stutters, not from love,  
but from the weight of holding too much alone.  

It’s the kind of fear  
that doesn’t scream,  
it whispers,  
slow and cold, like breath on glass.  

I make it through the day  
by pretending it’s not there,  
by straightening my back  
and stuffing the shaking  
into my ribs where no one looks.  

People ask,  
“Are you okay?”  
And I nod,  
because the truth would unravel me.  

These silent shakes  
don’t beg for help,  
they beg to be hidden.  
To not be a burden.  
To not break what little is left.  

But some nights,  
when the house is quiet  
and the lights are low,  
I feel it all at once,  
the tremble in my soul,  
the quake in my chest,  
the plea in my bones  
just to be held,  
and told it’s okay to fall.  

I wear strength like borrowed skin,  
stitched together from moments I almost gave up.  
To the world, I look steady,  
shoulders squared,  
chin raised like I know who I am.  

But the armor’s cracked.  
Hairline fractures run through every brave word,  
every smile that says “I’m fine.”  
They don’t see the weight it takes  
just to stand,  
just to breathe through the breaking.  

Every “I got this”  
is a whisper from a throat closing in.  
Every step forward  
is over ground that trembles beneath my silence.  

My strength isn’t forged from iron,  
it’s built from pain,  
from days I had no choice but to keep going,  
from nights I held myself  
like the only shield I had.  

And it’s not that I want to be saved,  
I just want someone to notice,  
to see the rust,  
the dents,  
the way the armor folds inward when no one’s watching.  

Because even the strongest  
sometimes need a place to fall apart,  
a touch that says,  
“you don’t have to carry it alone.”  
And maybe one day,  
I’ll let it go,  
this fragile armor  
that kept me safe,  
but never whole.  

There’s a second between breaking  
and pretending you’re okay,  
I live in that second.  
A quiet place where my breath catches,  
where my body forgets what standing tall feels like.  

I almost fell today.  
Almost gave in to the ache in my chest,  
the voice that says,  
"You're tired. Just stop."  

But I didn’t.  
Not because I’m brave,  
not because I’m healed,  
but because I’ve learned how to walk  
with shattered feet.  

I whisper encouragement  
into the hollow of my bones,  
tie hope around my wrist like a threadbare ribbon,  
and tell myself:  
"Just one more day."  

No one sees how often I bend,  
how often I sink into the floor  
just to feel the earth hold me  
when nothing else can.  

I push through,  
not for glory,  
but because something inside me  
still believes  
there’s a version of me on the other side of this pain  
who breathes easier,  
who smiles without faking it,  
who doesn’t always feel one thought away from falling.  

So here I am,  
not whole, not strong,  
but still standing.  
And for today,  
that is enough. 

I walk barefoot through the wreckage,  
every step slices deeper,  
but I keep moving  
because going back hurts more  
than pushing through.  

No one handed me shoes,  
no one cleared the path.  
They just pointed and said,  
“You’re strong. You’ll make it.”  

But strength doesn’t mean I don’t bleed.  
It doesn’t mean I don’t wince  
when memories cut like glass,  
when old wounds reopen  
just from the sound of their names.  

I’ve learned how to tiptoe through trauma,  
how to breathe between the jagged edges  
of yesterday’s shatter.  
There’s no map for pain like this,  
you just follow the throb  
and hope you’re still whole  
on the other side.  

Some days, I carry myself like a storm,  
unapologetically breaking what already broke me.  
Other days, I’m just a girl  
with aching soles  
and nowhere soft to land.  

But I keep going,  
not because it doesn’t hurt,  
but because the hurt hasn’t stopped me yet.  
And that has to mean something.  

The world doesn’t stop spinning  
just because I can’t catch my breath.  
So I’ve learned to find air  
in the moments no one else sees,  
the pauses between heartbreaks,  
the silence after shouting in my head.  

Chaos wraps around me  
like a too-tight blanket,  
but sometimes,  
I find a corner that’s loose,  
just enough to let in light.  

It’s not peace,  
not really.  
Just small mercies,  
a single breath where I don’t feel like drowning,  
a second where my hands stop shaking,  
a heartbeat where my chest doesn’t ache.  

I live for those moments.  
They are never loud.  
They never last.  
But they are mine.  

When everything falls,  
I press my back to the wall,  
and search for that breath,  
the one that reminds me  
I’m still here.  

Still standing,  
still hurting,  
but still breathing  
between the cracks  
of everything I thought would break me.  

It’s hard to explain the heaviness  
when there’s nothing visible holding me down,  
no rope, no bruises,  
just a quiet kind of prison  
built out of expectations and shame.  

I smile like I’m fine,  
but inside, I’m chained to a thousand whispers:  
“Be better.”  
“Don’t fall apart.”  
“Make it look easy.”  

They don’t see the weight,  
because it’s stitched into my skin,  
woven into how I move,  
how I speak,  
how I shrink when no one’s watching.  

I drag it everywhere,  
into kitchens, into bedrooms, into conversations  
where I pretend I’m free.  

But I am not free.  
I am bound by the need to seem okay,  
by the fear of burdening others,  
by the lies I tell myself  
just to make it through another day.  

If they looked closer,  
they’d see the chains gleam beneath my words,  
they’d hear the clank in my silences.  

But no one does.  
And so I carry it,  
every invisible link,  
every silent scream,  
until the day I forget what it feels like  
to walk without the weight.  

Some days, I feel like paper,  
creased, torn at the edges,  
thin enough for the world to see through  
but somehow still holding together.

I flutter in winds I didn’t ask for,  
fold under the weight of things  
others would never even notice.  
But I don’t rip.  
Not completely.

There’s strength in fragility,  
a quiet kind of power  
in being soft  
and still surviving the storm.  

I wear my emotions on the outside,  
inked across my skin  
like stories too raw to hide.  
Every tear, every ache,  
soaks through like spilled water  
on a page already full.  

But I do not crumble.  
Even with edges worn and corners bent,  
I remain,  
delicate, yes,  
but unbroken.

And maybe that’s enough,  
to be this soft  
and still be standing.  
To be paper thin  
and still be whole.  

Every step feels borrowed,  
like the ground could give at any second.  
I tiptoe through days  
that look steady from the outside  
but tremble beneath me  
when no one’s watching.  

Doubt is a shadow that follows too close,  
whispering,  
“This might be the step that breaks you.”  
And still,  
I walk.  
Wavering, hesitant,  
but forward.

Nothing feels solid.  
Not the promises I cling to,  
not the hands that once held me,  
not the version of me I try to believe in.  
It all slips,
like sand underfoot  
or trust after betrayal.  

I search for anchors,  
but even hope feels like a ghost  
I can’t quite catch.  

Still, somehow,  
I don’t collapse.  
Maybe it’s stubbornness,  
maybe it’s a wish I haven’t buried yet,  
but I keep walking  
through the blur of light and dark,  
on this ground that shifts  
and breaks  
and still holds me…  
for now.  

It starts small,  
a single whisper in my mind,  
"You're not enough."  
Soft.  
Like it wants to be my friend.  

Then it multiplies,  
"You'll never get it right."  
"They don't really care."  
"You're too much, too little, too late."  
And I start to believe them.  
Because the voice sounds like mine.

I try to ground myself,  
feet planted, chest steady,  
but the earth beneath me trembles  
with every unkind word  
I've ever swallowed whole.  

I smile in the mirror  
but can’t look into my own eyes.  
I say “I’m okay,”  
but the lie chokes me halfway out.  
I laugh,  
and underneath it is a scream  
only I can hear.  

It’s a strange kind of loneliness,  
to be surrounded  
and still feel like you’re unraveling  
from the inside out.  

I want to silence the whispers.  
I want to believe in myself again.  
But right now,  
it’s just me  
and the echo of my doubts,  
making every step feel  
like a risk  
I might not survive.  

I walk a thin line,  
between the shadows and the light,  
between what I hope for  
and what I fear will fall apart.

Each step is careful,  
a silent prayer whispered to the wind,  
that the ground beneath won’t give way,  
that the weight I carry  
won’t break me down today.

I juggle dreams and doubts,  
catching them midair,  
fragile hopes that shine like glass,  
sharp fears that could shatter everything.

Some days, the balance feels steady,  
like I’ve found a rhythm  
in this chaotic dance of pain and hope.  
Other days, my hands tremble,  
and I wonder how much longer  
I can keep holding on.

The cracks are growing,  
but I press on,  
because giving up  
means falling into a silence  
that’s far worse than the trembling steps.

So I balance,  
sometimes wobbling, sometimes steady,  
learning to trust the dance,  
even when the music feels broken,  
and the end is nowhere in sight.

Because even if I fall,  
I know I’ll get back up,  
still juggling, still fighting,  
still believing  
that someday,  
the line will hold  
and I’ll find my footing  
in the quiet after the storm.

The wind screams its fury,  
tearing at the sky’s fragile veil,  
but deep beneath,  
my roots grip harder.

Though the storm tosses me sideways,  
bends me nearly to breaking,  
I hold fast in the dark earth,  
anchored by a stubborn heart.

Branches whip and shatter,  
leaves are torn in wild flight,  
yet the core remains unbroken,  
fighting through endless night.

I may sway, I may tremble,  
but I refuse to fall,  
because even when everything shakes,  
I still hear the quiet call.

A whisper beneath the chaos,  
a voice that says hold on,  
your roots run deeper than the storm,  
your strength is never gone.

So I weather the madness,  
grit clenched tight in my veins,  
knowing that after the wildest night,  
comes the calm, the sun’s warm reign.

And even if the world breaks me,  
and I’m bent beyond belief,  
I am still rooted, still breathing,  
still rising from the grief.

My hands tremble,  
a quiet quake beneath my skin,  
nervous fingers searching for calm,  
for something solid, something still.

They reach for balance in the chaos,  
grasping at invisible threads  
that slip and fray with every breath,  
like trying to hold smoke in an open palm.

The world shifts beneath me,  
and I clutch at moments that might hold,  
a steady voice, a kind glance,  
a heartbeat I can follow home.

But the tremble won’t quiet,  
it shakes with every doubt and fear,  
a storm inside that won’t relent,  
a fragile fight, raw and clear.

Still, I try,  
to cradle the shaking,  
to will the hands steady,  
to find peace inside the unrest,  
to believe in strength despite the tremble.

For even trembling hands can heal,  
can build, can hold, can fight,  
they just need a little time  
to learn how to hold the light.

I trip on jagged edges,  
my feet catching on yesterday’s pain,  
but I don’t stay down,  
I fall forward.

Each stumble, a lesson carved  
into the soft skin of my resolve,  
a whisper that says progress  
is messy and uneven and real.

The ground rushes up in sudden surprise,  
a flash of fear in the breath I lose,  
but then a hand reaches through the dark,  
or I find strength I didn’t know I had.

Falling forward is not failure,  
it’s the courage to keep moving,  
to rise bruised but unbroken,  
to trust the journey more than the fall.

Because in every falter,  
there’s a secret seed of growth,  
a fierce promise that wounds  
can become wings,  
and every fall is a step  
towards who I’m meant to be.

So I won’t fear the breaking,  
or the slips along the way,  
for falling forward means I’m living,  
learning how to fly from the fray.

There’s a quiet echo  
that follows me through empty rooms,  
a fragile sound of broken glass,  
shattered pieces of a soul  
too weary to be whole.

It lingers in my chest,  
a whispering ghost of weakness,  
calling back every scar,  
every falter, every fall  
that left me trembling,  
wondering if I’d survive the next.

Fragility is not just a moment,  
it’s a shadow I carry,  
woven deep into the fabric  
of my days and nights,  
a weight both light and crushing.

Sometimes I try to hide it,  
tucking away the cracks and tears,  
but the echoes slip through the cracks,  
reminding me I am human,  
that strength and weakness live side by side.

And though the echo haunts me,  
I’ve learned to listen gently,  
to honor the soft edges of myself,  
for in fragility lies a truth,  
that even brokenness  
can still sing a song of survival.

So I hold these echoes close,  
not as chains, but as wings,  
a tender reminder that to be fragile  
is to be alive,  
breathing, feeling, aching,  
and still moving forward.

There’s a heaviness that sits  
right between my ribs,  
the weight of ‘almost,’  
the space between breaking and holding on.

It’s the breath caught in my throat,  
the silence that screams louder  
than any words ever could,  
a trembling that refuses to settle.

I’m standing on the edge,  
not quite falling,  
not quite safe,  
hovering in the ache of not enough.

Almost means I’m close,  
close enough to touch the shatter,  
to feel the fracture deep beneath  
but still grasping for the pieces  
that keep me barely whole.

It’s the longest kind of waiting,  
the limbo where hope and fear dance  
and every heartbeat questions  
if the next will be the one that breaks me.

Yet, here I am,  
cracked and worn,  
bearing the weight of ‘almost’  
like a scarred armor  
that no one else can see.

And maybe that’s enough,  
to be on the verge,  
to feel the pull of breaking,  
and still choose to stand.

For in the weight of ‘almost,’  
there’s a quiet kind of strength,  
the courage to keep breathing,  
to keep trying,  
to keep hoping  
even when it hurts to hold on.

The walls stand empty,  
bare as my quiet thoughts,  
no pictures, no laughter,  
just echoes of what used to be.

Beneath my feet,  
the floor feels thin,  
fragile like glass ready to shatter  
under the slightest weight of doubt.

Every step I take  
feels like a risk,  
a gamble with gravity,  
where falling means losing more  
than just balance.

The ground trembles with every breath,  
and the silence screams louder  
than any storm ever could,  
threatening to swallow  
the cracks I try to hide.

I pace these fragile rooms,  
searching for steady ground,  
but the emptiness holds me hostage,  
a cage built of fear and unspoken pain.

Sometimes I want to scream,  
to shake the bare walls until they crumble,  
but I’m too tired,  
too fragile to fight the collapse.

So I stand,  
in this quiet ruin of myself,  
hoping the floors don’t give way  
before I find a way to heal  
the cracks beneath my feet.

A fragile flame dances  
in the darkest corners,  
a whisper of light  
against the endless night.

It trembles with every breath,  
flickers with the faintest wind,  
threatened by shadows  
that hunger to consume.

But still it burns,  
fragile and small,  
a stubborn spark refusing to die,  
holding on through the storm.

In the silence where despair seeps,  
this little flame whispers secrets,  
that even broken things can glow,  
and shattered hearts can heal.

It’s a tender hope,  
soft as a sigh,  
barely there, yet fiercely alive,  
a promise that darkness  
is never the end.

So I cradle this flame close,  
protect it from the cold,  
and let it guide me gently  
through the unsteady night,  
for even the smallest light  
can lead me home.

I wore my strength like armor,  
solid, unyielding, fierce,  
a fortress built from years of battles,  
from scars no one could see.

But even the strongest walls  
can crack beneath the weight,  
the weight of silent struggles,  
of battles fought alone in the night.

The cracks appeared without warning,  
splintering the steel I’d held so tight,  
leaving pieces scattered  
like shards of forgotten hope.

Yet through the fractures,  
my heart beats steady still,  
whole and fierce and tender,  
undaunted by the breaks.

For strength is not perfection,  
not unbreakable stone,  
but the courage to stand shattered,  
and keep on standing anyway.

I gather every broken piece,  
mending the cracks with gentle hands,  
learning that even shattered strength  
can hold a heart that’s brave.

So here I stand, cracked but alive,  
a warrior of fragile might,  
knowing that the truest power  
is to break—and still shine bright.

Behind every smile, a war rages on, 
battles no one sees, no one knows,  
fought in silence, in shadows deep,  
where the light dares not to go.

The armor is worn, the mask in place,  
a fragile guise to hide the ache,  
but beneath the surface, the fight unfolds,  
each breath a war to take.

The scars aren’t visible,  
but they run so deep inside,  
etched in the heart’s quiet corners,  
where pain and hope collide.

No cheers, no medals for these wars,  
no crowds to call my name,  
just the steady drum of silent fights,  
in a battlefield of shame.

Yet still I stand,  
wounded but unbowed,  
fighting the fights no one knows,  
strong beneath the cloud.

These unseen battles shape my soul,  
teach me how to bend, not break,  
and though the world may never see,  
I fight for my own sake.

No thunder crashes when I fall apart,  
no shouts to mark the breaking heart.  
Just silent cracks inside my mind,  
a quiet collapse no one will find.

I crumble softly, piece by piece,  
behind closed doors, no release.  
No witness to the fading light,  
no savior in the endless night.

The world keeps spinning, unaware,  
while I drown slowly in thin air.  
My screams are whispers, faint and low,  
buried deep where no one goes.

Each day I gather broken dreams,  
mend my soul with fragile seams.  
Yet underneath the calm, the mask,  
lies a storm too fierce to ask.

This quiet collapse, unseen, unknown,  
a solitude carved deep in stone.  
But still I breathe, still I survive,  
fragile, fading, but alive.

I hold myself together  
by threads so thin,  
barely visible,  
barely holding within.

Each breath a struggle,  
each step a fight,  
clinging to pieces  
in the fading light.

The world pulls hard,  
a storm without end,  
but these fragile cords  
I fiercely defend.

They fray with each worry,  
tear with each doubt,  
yet I cling tighter  
when they want me out.

My soul, tethered,  
to hope and pain,  
dancing on edges  
of loss and gain.

Invisible strings,  
fragile and worn,  
keeping me whole  
though battered and torn.

So here I remain,  
against the storm’s pull,  
a tethered soul,  
unbroken, but full.

I walk these halls  
but leave no trace,  
each step lighter,  
a vanishing place.

My voice once echoed,  
now just a sigh,  
fading footsteps  
as time drifts by.

The mirror reflects  
a ghost I don’t know,  
a shadow that slips  
too tired to show.

Bit by bit,  
I disappear,  
lost in the silence  
no one will hear.

Hands that once held me  
slip through the air,  
empty embraces  
of deep despair.

I’m here but not here,  
a whisper, a breath,  
a slow unraveling  
toward quiet death.

But still I move forward,  
though fading, unsure,  
searching for something  
that might endure.

Fractured pieces scattered wide,  
inside a heart that won’t hide.  
Pain seeps deep, a silent scream,  
shattering hope, breaking the dream.

But still, I breathe.  
Though broken, still alive,  
carrying wounds I can’t yet hide.  
Each breath a battle, each beat a war,  
mending cracks that ache at the core.

I wear my scars like faded tattoos,  
maps of trials, old and new.  
Not healed, but healing slow,  
learning to live despite the blow.

The weight is heavy, the nights are long,  
but in the dark, I find my song.  
A whispered promise, a fragile vow,  
to keep on breathing here and now.

Broken, yes,  
but still breathing through,  
finding strength in being true.  
Alive within the shattered frame,  
holding on despite the pain.

The wind howls fierce around my frame,  
tearing at roots, calling my name.  
I bend and sway but do not fall,  
a fragile dancer against it all.

Storm clouds gather, heavy and grim,  
thunder rolls, the daylight dim.  
Yet here I stand, though pushed and pressed,  
a weary soul refusing rest.

The tempest rages, wild and loud,  
I’m just a leaf in this stormy crowd.  
But still I sway, I don’t give in,  
holding tight beneath the din.

Bent but not broken, bruised but whole,  
fighting hard to guard my soul.  
The storm may rage, the skies may cry,  
but I’m still here, still reaching high.

Each gust a test, each rain a pain,  
but through it all, I will remain.  
Swaying gently, feeling the strain, 
a fragile heart that beats through rain.

My wings are fragile, barely there,  
thin as whispers in the air.  
I spread them wide against the weight,  
longing to rise beyond this fate.

The sky above feels far and cold,  
a distant place I’ve yet to hold.  
But still I try with trembling might,  
to break the chains and claim my flight.

Each feather bent from storms endured,  
each flap unsure, my heart obscured.  
The heaviness that pulls me down  
is wrapped in sorrow’s quiet crown.

I dream of soaring through the light,  
escaping shadows of the night.  
Yet every time I lift and try,  
my wings falter, and I sigh.

The ground feels close, its cold embrace,  
a stark reminder of my place.  
But deep inside a spark remains,  
a fragile hope despite the chains.

I’m learning how to bear the weight,  
to rise despite the hands of fate.  
Though wings may tremble, break, and sting,  
there’s courage in my fragile wings.

So I will spread them, weak but true,  
to chase the dawn, to find what’s new.  
For even fragile wings can fly,  
if only they dare touch the sky.

The ground beneath me shifts and shakes,  
like everything I know could break.  
A trembling earth that won’t stay still,  
a restless sea, against my will.

Each step I take feels unsure,  
my heart unsure if it will endure.  
The world around is blurry, vague,  
a fragile dance on a tightening cage.

The wind howls doubts into my ears,  
stirring up my deepest fears.  
Will I stand, or will I fall?  
Will silence answer when I call?

The cracks beneath my careful feet  
remind me pain is no retreat.  
Yet still I breathe, and still I try,  
to hold my ground beneath this sky.

Though roots may loosen, branches bend,  
there’s something fierce I can defend.  
A stubborn spark, a will to fight,  
to face the dark, embrace the light.

Unsteady ground but here I stand,  
with trembling heart and outstretched hand.  
For even when the world won’t stay,  
I’ll find a way to make my way.

So let the earth move as it will,  
my spirit burns with steady thrill.  
Though footing shifts, my soul is sound,  
I’m still here, on unsteady ground.

I carry scars no one can see,  
wounds that whisper silently.  
Each day a battle, fought alone,  
a quiet war carved into bone.

The nights were long, the shadows deep,  
when tears would fall and I couldn’t sleep.  
Broken pieces, shattered dreams,  
lost inside those silent screams.

But here I stand, against the storm,  
though weathered, worn, no longer warm.  
The weight of pain still pulls me down,  
yet still I wear my broken crown.

Not loud or proud, no grand parade,  
just breath that’s held, and steps that stayed.  
The victory hidden, soft and small,  
to simply rise, and still stand tall.

For every fall that nearly broke,  
each whispered prayer, each silent choke,  
I am the sum of all I’ve lost,  
the quiet strength that paid the cost.

So when the world feels cold and cruel,  
and life has played its hardest duel,  
remember this: through all the fear,  
the fiercest truth is I’m still here.