They say blood is thicker,
but all I see is the stain
red like rage, like betrayal,
like the weight of your name.
You speak, and the air turns poison,
every word laced with spite,
cutting me open,
just to see if I’ll fight.
But I’m tired.
Tired of war with a ghost,
tired of caring the most -
when you never cared at all.
Family is chosen in love,
not chained by birthright.
So go -
vanish into your own darkness.
I owe you nothing.
Not my peace.
Not my pain.
Not my name.
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The walls are measured, set in place,
each angle drawn with careful pace.
A structure firm, precise, refined,
yet leaves no open space behind.
The ceiling holds, the floors endure,
designed to stand, secure and sure.
No gaps to breach, no faults to find,
a system closed by its design.
A window shows the world outside,
a door remains, though rarely tried.
The framework strong, the plan complete,
yet movement stays within the beat.
A boundary built by careful hands,
not by demand, not by commands.
Yet here within, the steps repeat,
while open paths stay incomplete.
Beneath the attic's gentle, wooden loom,
I wove my wonders, treasures small but bright,
A haven tucked within my childhood room.
I crouched beneath the beams to feel their might,
Their arching curves a shield from all my fears,
And watched the shadows shift with waning light.
In that small world, where silence calmed my tears,
I found peace beneath the rafters' bloom,
A hidden space where I could leave behind the years.
The attic door aglow, a sacred room,
Where shadows fade, and memories take flight,
I find my peace beneath the quiet gloom.
#TerzaRima
Your steps are slow, but steady still,
We walk the path beneath the hill.
Your hand in mine, once strong, now frail,
Yet full of stories you regale.
The autumn leaves, like memories, fall,
A tapestry of times we recall.
You speak of days when I was small,
Your love the thread that wove it all.
The air is crisp, the evening near,
Yet in your eyes, the past is clear.
You smile and tell me not to cry,
For love like ours will never die.
Though years may pass and seasons turn,
These moments stay, as lessons burn.
A walk to remember, side by side,
With you, my mother, my heart, my guide.
The day’s chaos lingers, a restless tide,
waves of voices crash, they won’t subside.
The echoes remain where silence should be,
a battlefield carved deep inside of me.
Footsteps of hours march through my brain,
each moment heavy, a whisper of strain.
The sun may have set, but shadows stay,
haunting the corners, unbidden, they play.
Yet somewhere beneath this riotous sound,
a numbness begins to settle, profound.
It wraps like fog, cold and thick,
a cure, a curse - it numbs too quick.
The mind wavers, unable to decide,
to fight or surrender, to stand or to hide.
And so I drift, caught in between,
the wreckage of chaos, the blank unseen.
Not the cards you’re given,
but the turn you take,
the weight of waiting,
the steady breath,
the look unshaken.
You’ll learn the art of folding,
know when to raise,
and when to hold close
what's hidden,
what you don’t yet show.
The deal isn’t destiny -
it’s in the slip of a finger,
the flick of a wrist,
the light in your eyes
as you lean in and play.
What I want... slips from reach,
A ghost in the dark, a word out of speech.
I stretch out my hands, but all I find,
A space filled with longing, a restless mind.
What I have... I don’t crave,
Leftovers from battles I didn’t save.
They gather dust on a crowded shelf,
Fragments of a life that’s not myself.
What I seek... hides away,
A treasure buried, led astray.
Maps I’ve followed that fade to mist,
Paths that twist and then don’t exist.
What I found... I can’t face,
Truths too sharp, too full of grace.
They cut like glass, they burn like fire,
Testing the edge of my heart’s desire.
What I’ve endured... I didn’t deserve,
Echoes of choices that dip and swerve.
Lessons etched in scars and lines,
Worn through years and stolen time.
How much more elusive, will life dare to be?
A riddle of shadows, never set free.
I’m caught in the chase, in the wanting’s snare,
As life holds its secrets, just out of air.
