There was a house inside my chest Where every window had been broken, Curtains hanging like tired prayers, Doors swollen shut from years of storms That no one noticed. The floors remembered every footstep Of grief that walked barefoot through me. Every goodbye stayed like dust On shelves I no longer touched. Even laughter sounded abandoned there. I became familiar with darkness. Not the kind that visits at night— The kind that moves into your bones, Unpacks its sorrow, And calls itself home. People said, “Time heals.” But time only watched me drown quietly While pretending I still knew how to swim. I smiled with exhausted eyes, Spoke in half-hearted breaths, Carried entire wars in my ribs While the world mistook silence For strength. Hope left slowly. Not like lightning. Like winter. One cold hour at a time. Until mornings felt meaningless, Mirrors became strangers, And my soul sat alone Like an orphan waiting for a name. Yet healing, Healing did not arrive beautifully. It did not come...
There once was a genius renowned, For thoughts that were tightly wound, He could map every star, Name planets afar, Yet tripped on completely flat ground. He’d lecture on time with a grin, Explain where the universe’s been, With charts so precise They’d make ice feel like spice. Then forget what room he was in. His lab was a marvel of mess, Organized chaos at best, With wires and notes, Half-written quotes, And a sandwich mid-experiment test. “Behold!” he would proudly declare, Adjusting his lab-coated flair, “This device that I’ve made Will not… well, it may... But mostly it shouldn’t catch fire there.” He’d flip a switch labeled “DO NOT,” Then say, “Let us see what we’ve got,” A rumble, a flash, A scientifically loud crash. “Ah,” he’d say, “that was planned , oddly not.” A toaster once gained self-awareness, And spoke with alarming self-fairness, “Your logic is weak, Your wiring is bleak.” It said with mechanical rareness. He nodded. “Fascinating tone.” Then tried to impro...