Two

I drift away in the quiet fog of procrastination,
Wondering which winding track my life boarded.
The air feels heavy, thick with invisible eyes,
Watched by an unseen gallery of strangers.

Voices I have never heard whisper in the static,
Faces I have never seen stare from the blur.
I am a passenger on a train I didn't choose,
Moving forward, yet frozen under their gaze.

Lately, life has poured her a bitter brew.
She drinks it down like dark coffee
Fuel to keep her feet moving forward.

She swallows the ache, trusting the timeline,
Knowing this bitterness will one day distill into tenderness.
She cannot halt, she cannot break;
She knows the exact weight resting on her shoulders,
And she refuses to betray her sacred vows.

She steps out from the fog of frozen hours,
Forcing her fingers around the heavy pen.
But the ink feels like lead upon the page
Still lighter than the ghosts of betrayal she carries

The storms have burned away her interest in the crowd
She seeks no company, expects no saving hand.
There is no burning malice in her quiet heart,
No room for bitter grudges, nor for hate.
She is not angry; she is beautifully unbound
Simply detached, and finally at peace.

Safe in the warmth of those who hold me dear,
I wear a quiet mask to keep them pleased.
But far ahead, across the bends of time,
lies a secret, sunlit garden.
There, my inner child steps into the light
to dance with fluidity, poise, and panache.


Deep down, she knows her own map better than anyone else.
She is a book written by her own hand
She knows why she wrote the past,
Why she pens the present,
And what she will write tomorrow.

Yet a quiet dilemma echoes in the dark:
Beyond the safe warmth of those who already love her,
Will anyone else ever learn to love the entire story?

A beloved voice whispered to her: Embrace the skin you are in.
We marvel at fiction, yet forget that we are the real masterpieces.
Our jagged edges and unique lines are what make us whole.

When the world fails to notice or offer praise,
We turn inward, searching only for our flaws.
But remember a true artist does not need a crowd to clap;

They already know exactly how to admire the art.

With that, she wears a smile of quiet grace,
Unmoved by the cold, malevolent glare.
She carries ambitions heavier than her current strength
A resilient soul deserving of a blessing.
And so, with steady steps, she continues her journey,
Walking onward to her next zenith.