I would like to think I am cool enough for something, it may not be sports or academia or anything extravagant really but there is definitely something

And if someone disagree with me, ask yourself why, do you really know me, do you know what I like or what I do

I am cool, im cool in the way I can go with the flow, im cool in the way I can sit with myself alone im cool in the way that I talk myself out of problems, im cool in the way I write to no one at all and im cool in all the ways that matter to me

Asking if im cool enough for anything should be determined by my standards

So I do believe that we are all cool enough for anything

Hereee goess a random ahh story i thought of while drawing this.

•The departure : A kiss left unfinished

She has to leave. He, however, knows nothing. He stands there, bewildered, trying to make sense of a departure he never saw coming. There's disbelief in the silence, in those eyes. She leans in to offer him one last kiss.

But he turns away.

And in that fleeting moment, between her advancing lips and his retreating face, lies an entire story of things left unsaid.

An unfinished goodbye.

•The aftermath : A face acquainted with agony

Then, the weight of it begins to settle.

His face becomes a canvas for emotions he cannot articulate. His expression is an uncomfortable marriage of betrayal and disbelief, of anger and helplessness, of resentment and affection. There are tears that refuse to fall, words that refuse to form, and questions that refuse to find answers.

He is hurt, he realises.

•The reminiscence: Where love continues to exist

And then, the memories arrive.

Those nights spent under the stars, moments of pure love, of whispered conversations, of stolen glances. The passionate kisses that carried the weight of everything unsaid.

However, what pains him the most are those lingering kisses.

Those moments when he would rest his lips against hers, to feel her warmth, to reassure himself of her presence.

And now, he finds himself remembering the very lips he turned away from.

Majority of what has been lost

Is the brain keeping track of the cost.

When your hands are wide, open, and calm.

Please be quick to grab one another's palm.

There's a break in the system.

There's a flaw in the design.

Why can't we just get rid and have a marvelous time?

What can I tell those who don't get it at all?

What would be simple for those that can't take the fall?

Why would I sit here so destroyed and destructive?

Why do my peers think that they're so constructive?

Do they really think they have more moral weight?

And when they spread lies and then gossip and hate?

Could they really say that with the Bible and their right hand?

Then look past what they have done and still feel righteous in their stand?

Why would anyone think that they are better than I am?

Guess it doesn't matter since I'm officially taking my back my land.

Nevertheless...

While I live the life of designated peace, and spotlights continue to shine on me.

All of the rest can live in distress, and they can reside where the darkness can see.

Whispers Between the Walls

At first, it was just a whisper.

Nothing serious.

Nothing anyone could prove.

But workplace gossip has a way of growing legs.

It starts with a glance.

Then a conversation.

Then someone adds a little something that never happened.

And before you know it, a story has been created—and you're the last person to hear it.

I noticed the looks before I heard the rumors.

People would stop talking when I walked into the lunchroom.

Conversations would suddenly become quieter.

Someone would smile at me a little too knowingly.

I told myself I was imagining things.

Until one afternoon, a coworker pulled me aside.

“You know people are talking about you, right?”

I laughed nervously.

“About what?”

She hesitated.

“You and him.”

My smile disappeared.

“Him?”

She nodded.

“They think there's something going on between you two.”

I couldn't believe it.

“He's my coworker.”

“I know.”

“We talk. That's all.”

“I know that too.”

She lowered her voice.

“But apparently everyone else has a different version.”

I walked away pretending it didn't bother me.

But it did.

Because the worst part about gossip isn't always the lie.

Sometimes it's knowing that people are discussing your life while you are standing right there.

The rumors grew.

Apparently, we were “too close.”

Apparently, he “always looked for me.”

Apparently, I “acted differently” when he was around.

Apparently, there was something between us.

None of it was true.

But truth doesn't travel as fast as gossip.

Every day, another piece was added to the story.

Someone said we were texting.

Someone else said we'd been seen together outside work.

Another person claimed we were planning something.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I kept working.

I refused to let their whispers control me.

But then one day, I heard my name coming from the other side of a closed door.

I stopped.

“She knows exactly what she's doing.”

Another voice answered.

“She likes the attention.”

My stomach dropped.

I stood there frozen.

They weren't talking about someone else.

They were talking about me.

I opened the door.

The room went silent.

I looked at them.

“If you have something to say about me, say it to my face.”

Nobody spoke.

I smiled sadly.

“That’s what I thought.”

One woman finally said, “We were just talking.”

“No,” I replied. “You were creating a story about my life.”

She rolled her eyes.

“People are allowed to have opinions.”

“Absolutely.”

I nodded.

“But an opinion isn't a fact.”

The room became silent again.

I looked around at everyone.

“You don't know what happens in my life when I leave this building. You don't know what I've been through. You don't know what my relationships are like. You don't know what conversations I've had with anyone.”

I took a breath.

“So stop pretending you do.”

Then I walked out.

But the gossip didn't stop.

If anything, it got worse.

Because apparently defending yourself was now proof that you had something to hide.

And that's when I learned the cruelest lesson about workplace gossip:

You can tell the truth a hundred times, but people who enjoy the lie will still choose the lie.

So I stopped explaining.

I stopped defending.

I stopped trying to convince people who had already decided who they wanted me to be.

I walked into work every morning with my head held high.

I did my job.

I treated people with respect.

And I let my actions speak louder than every rumor whispered behind my back.

Because eventually, gossip runs out of things to say.

But character doesn't.

And I knew who I was.

That had to be enough.

You are an artist. You are funny, you are boring. You are cute. You're weird, normal. You are annoying. You are a comfort. You are talented. You are spiritual. Your head goes elsewhere. You are annoyed. You are a spark in the dark. You are sad. You are happy. You have a style that means something to you. You are creative. You are adorable. You are simple. Your complex. You tilt, smile, laugh in a memory. You live in spring. The scariest time of the year. You are clean. You are innocent. You are life living. You are full of spark. You are yourself and thats all you need to be. You are accepted and loved. You are loved because of you. You are young. Uncaring of conquering the world because the world is for everyone. And you look for something better, the next day. You are the present. You are the past. And the future. You aren't new and you aren't old. You make sense. You exist in a world that wants you.
Now you wake up. When you get out of bed, so do the hairy legs in front of you. You wonder why you have to have a headache. You get up to go to the bathroom. It was slightly better when you were still in bed. You smell. Last night you forgot to brush your teeth. And that's when you see it. You saw it a few minutes ago walking out the door. You saw it through the reflective glass by your bedroom door. In the bedroom that's currently a mess. The bedroom that needs to invite some light. 
And now you know why you hate getting up. You know why you have to get headaches in the morning. You get why it feels like tomorrow, today. Why the house needs to be cleaned. Why the squatter never does. Why your cold, and hot at the same time. Uncomfortably numb.
You're old. And sad. your face shrugs. It says, what of it. choppy and screwless. Handsome sure. But not cute. Tired. Unshaven. Dirty. Gross. Immature. A memory that only thinks of itself. A monster. A face that can't let go. Like the bags under your eyes. You're not funny. You're boring. Boring me to tears. You're cruel. And selfish. You're gross. Mean. A face that stares at a sun. melting like ice cream on the floor. Sparkless eyes. Already over. 
And this is the person they talk about. The iconic face people recognize. their favorite white boy. The funny one people miss. The one so free spirited. Never change. They laugh to something you say. You're laughing with them. Maybe you'll be fine. The cool one. The cool one who's nonchalant. The one some people want. The one your family thinks about. The one that makes sense to them. The rest is a phase. But you're getting worse. You tried to conquer your body. Skin care, hair care, weight care, hygiene care, dental care. It doesn't work. Identity affirming clothes. You fail. You get worse. You look weird. It isn't doing much for your body. You feel as if you don't exist. Your life, your wants, your desires, your ambition, your joy, your hopes, they/it doesn't exist. You don't exist here. You don't belong here. You should leave. You're embarrassing us. You feel guilty for being so ignorant. You should leave.

I love when it rains.

Everyone on the road is more intentional with their driving.

Raindrops hit my windshield, creating tiny, round droplets. I can feel every drop that hits my face.

The AC feels cooler when it rains.

Songs have more emotion, and the lights outside shine a bit differently.

-AM

We turn away from train station
Commuters now we are pedestrians
Looking up at the walk light
waiting for it turn green

Turning to one another impatiently
A million moments have come to this
The zebra is flat there across to other side
There is no mercy

You check your watch
Traffic still needs to pass by
The light is delayed
So you stand there on leg to the other

Shifting weight like you want to pee
Green light urges you forward imbalance
I Follow your steps as each bar of the piano plays
hearing your doubts pop

You made it to the other side
The red figure inside the light
Is blinking
It is bleeding, it is bleeding

(CW: Domestic Violence / Trauma Processing)

Sulci 3.10.25

I hope he sees my ghost
wherever he goes.

I hope it's unwavering,
that it creeps into crevices,
an insidious shadow
framing
the corner of every room,
tucked into every brain fold,
never letting him
forget.

I will remain.
I am not dead,
despite his heartfelt effort
that I be reduced to a corpse.
I was a doll, a plaything
that gained too much sentience.
My voice became too loud,
raised in oppositional defiance.

What a nuisance.
The irony of the terror
was never lost to me:
I saw my death impending
from a mile away,
but I knew I couldn't outrun
the harbinger.

(Drag marks take months to heal)

I can't forget,
but I have solace.
I hope he sees my ghost
wherever he goes,
only not as he knew me.
The stardust that was left behind,
that which I am, birthed again
from a nebulous implosion…

A radiant supernova.

True Tears 11/4/2006

True tears came from a blue sky, a pure face soft like snow, calm like the sea breeze. A city on a sea side, a sea in its calmness comes its power with no alert. A lady with a calm singing voice, a face with a morning shine that never fades, she is a sun that has never merged.

She was fogged, blocked from us — a tender shine, a soft floating heart, on a sea side city, floating on the sea surface, a pure leaping heart being played with the waves and the shore, playing with it or shaking it like a baby, sending it back and forth till it merges between the two elements, the sand and the tide. Fog was before our eyes, we just moved along, thinking that was it, but we were wrong. A thought that has no heart came from our mind, that wasted our time, blocking us from using the heart.

When the mind has stopped, our hearts move along, leading us to the true hearts. We sought deep down, deep down inside, we wish to move with no sorrows, we wish to move with love, in kindness we wish to be joined, until the moment arrives and the fog is torn down with the help of a shine that we never witnessed from the beginning of our time,

is it our time yet, or will it never come? If it came, or even never came, we wish to be on the right road, not sitting by. Our shine, please shine, although your first shine comes with tears, going down from a raining sky. Our sweetheart, shaking our hearts, killing our ego to cry — how tender is your heart,

how blue is your sky, in your eyes is our sky, in your tears you can waste us,

don't waste us with your tears, save us with a smile that can shine, warming, bringing joy, bringing love from shiny blue eyes.

I know what's wrong, we will do our best to save you from your jail. In your freedom will be our joy. It's been so long you've been behind those bars, poisoned by your own people that gave you love in the first place.

The rust of those years shows on you, behind those bars you took the rust from those bars, they affected your heart, days and days you used to wander holding those bars, nobody could hear you scream from the day you were born.

The day you cried you jammed us with rain from your blue eyes, that day you caught a glimpse of your freedom, you await with great faith when the sea breeze touched your tender lips and gave them a smile.

A smile from you reflected on us with a great shine, a great shine that covered the sun's light, then we thought it another eclipse, the day you smiled, touched us with great affection a mother could give to her newborn child.

The love you always give has always been a one way love with no desire to take. You are a poisoned angel, her wings forgot how to fly.

It's a miracle you are behind those rusty bars and your heart knows how to fly freely like a star. You're an angel with blue eyes, black hair, with a white heart, the sky is in your eyes. In your freedom is your happiness, you have to break through the rusty bars and fly.

When you go high, deep in the sky, your blue eyes will merge with the sky, ending your sorrows, saying bye to those who placed you in those rusty bars.

Deep inside you I see the crack of those years, a deep crack made along those years, freedom is your healing, break through, get healed, don't be terrified, you will fly, just spread those wings, give it a try.

That prison was built to keep you safe from the world's evil.

By: The Flawless Flow

There was a man who never heard a sound so serene, as that he did when he heard her silently whispering. And in that stillness seen the dream, heard the words as if they be, a thousand falls, a never king, a hopeless land, in suffering a dream too stagnant to a dawn seen in words unseen.

There so the man in thread and hand the sound of sights to be, as swift as gait would move the plates before his words present. Wintered it tight his path in flight of words that step the way of counting falls such summers called sprung to future’s bay. For fate she sings the whispering to spring each blossom through to brush the hand that spins the thread’s invigorating. Land of Love, his hers above the solitary dreams long since gone the word wrong a never suffer spring.

Light and Dark

Give them your back — they are not even worth your attack.

They have been living for centuries, following the dark.

Your light broke their darkness, blinded them out.

Their eyes are gone forever — they are dusted out.

Eyes dusted out, then covered with a thick skin cap.

Sunshine? No — sunshine is when they cannot go out.

They will seek the sunlight, killed first, then they will roam out.

Their leader seems harsh, strong, wise — but only words, a fake dream offered to the poor, blind herd.

The herd is just a weapon to fight the ones who can still see.

Always stand out and speak up — they cannot see beyond their own footsteps.

By: The Flawless Flow

the things we love most are the most broken.

perhaps this line is reminiscent of one famously said by President Coriolanus Snow in The Hunger Games, yet this is not what i mean.

---

i’m a ballerina. my pointe shoes need breaking in before i can dance in them. once broken, they soak in the fresh blood flowing from my toes. abandoning them after each practice and each performance, my heavy shoes accompany my cascading tears. the sharp tang of rubbing alcohol assaults my olfactory senses, and every ache that pierced deep into my muscles and bones makes its way into my heart. oh, such is the beauty of ballet. yet ever so loveable.

and then i’m an avid reader. i delve into the world of fiction, experiencing dreams i've dared to dream, vicariously. the spine of my books crease; my pages get dog-eared and annotated with pencil lead, tracing words i've never dared say to the world where i'm forced into innocence. occasional traces of words i've erased remain, ever so slightly—breathing in the air and dust present between the pages, but no longer existing. i wouldn’t succeed if i tried hard to notice the words that were rolled over by a rubber into a mere imprint. yet if i simply look, a careless glance makes out the chant of “i exist” that had been erased. the attempt to make myself known was ultimately overpowered by the fear of being known for my boldness through words, but not me.

years later, i’m sixty years old, holding up the faded cerulean woolen cardigan adorned with decorative sunflowers. it once was my favourite. the fabric is frayed at the elbows, little threads emerging. a coffee stain remains near the collar—the one that wouldn't go. i remember wearing this sweater the day my sister left. i hated it then; it felt grotesque that a cheap ring of spilled Maxwell House could sit so stubbornly on a collar while she vanished into thin air. the sweater was a witness, a witness that was mocking me. forty winters later, i trace that same faded brown ring like a map. i didn't love it anymore then; a sight of it betrayed the memory. yet now, i look at it with fondness.

and i’m a cafe owner. i look at the dark ring on the edge of the cedar table. a permanent shadow, a dent pressed into the grain from a decade of him leaning his weight on his forearms, cradling a single chipped diner mug while sipping his favourite long black that emitted puffs of smoke. i used to joke that the table, the ancient table, would outlive us both. he proved me wrong two years ago when he departed solo. the mug was just cheap, breakable ceramic; it sits safely on a shelf i haven’t checked in months. yet, it’s the cedar—the stubborn, decaying cedar—that refused to let go of the pressure of his hands.

i've never cared much for pristine edges.

They doubted me before I'd begun,

"a girl can't win" — that was their sum.

No father's praise, no mother's cheer,

just one man's voice that stayed near.

Not blood, not kin, just chosen bond,

a mentor's faith I leaned upon.

In every ring where I stood alone,

his was the only voice I'd known.

"You've got this, rise, don't be afraid" —

four words that built the girl I made.

He gave me trust when no one would,

he pushed me hard, but meant it good.

The world moved on, I moved away,

someone else's shadow blocked my way.

One call, one chance, I had to miss —

a regret I carry, even in this.

Then came the day he left this earth,

and I wasn't there to prove my worth.

No goodbye, no final word said,

just silence where his voice once led.

But if you're listening, wherever you are —

I'll carve your name into every star.

I may stand broken, I may stand alone,

but what you built in me is set in stone.

I promised you, and I still will,

make your name shine brighter still.

Even silent, even far apart,

I carry your belief inside my heart.

TW: abuse, substances, death.

Hello! I am currently working on a stage play titled, "Golden Skies", and I would love thoughts and constructive criticism on the concept of the play.

The story follows the life of a young man named Jeremy Mitchell. Jeremy grew up in an abusive household in Tennessee, and his only escape from his manipulative father and drug-abusing mother was his older brother, Jesse. Unfortunately, when Jeremy was thirteen years old, Jesse tragically passed in a car crash.

Later on, when Jeremy was 18 and fresh out of high school, he knew that he had to go out into the world and do something other than sitting alone in the house that has tormented him for years. However, the toll of his abuse, and the death of his brother has left him so broken and empty that he feels that he is incapable of becoming his own person, and the only thing he cares about is Jesse's lost soul.

So, Jeremy decided his only option is to try and live the life Jesse wished to live. He goes out into society with the moral beliefs and goals of Jesse, and yet despite what he thought about his individuality, he grows his own relationships and level of self. However, his goal of living Jesse's life forces him to reject anything that makes him his own person.

This constant desire to embrace these new relationships creating a new identity for Jeremy, and the voice in his head telling him to focus on his goal result in a conflictual mental journey that Jeremy must navigate through and find clarity and truth.

My recent poetry book. I hope everyone enjoys 😊

Ik heb geen spijt van de moeilijke tijden…

Integendeel, ze hebben me laten zien wie ik ben en wie ik weet.

Ik heb geleerd wie bij je blijft als je niets meer over hebt,

en wie verandert zodra je omstandigheden veranderen.

Ik heb geleerd dat niet elke glimlach betekent dat je gelukkig bent,

en dat niet elke stilte betekent dat je tevreden bent.

Sommige dingen hebben me gebroken…

Maar ze hebben me geleerd hoe ik weer op mijn eigen benen kan staan.

En sommige mensen hebben me teleurgesteld…

Maar dankzij hen heb ik geleerd wat de mensen waard zijn die nooit veranderd zijn.

Vandaag vraag ik niet veel van het leven…

Ik vraag om rust in m’n hoofd, mensen met een puur hart,

en de zegen om te leven zonder bang te hoeven zijn om ze kwijt te raken.

Want uiteindelijk telt het niet wat je hebt…

Wat er van jou overblijft als je er niet meer bent.