Wrong

When the winds rise, they carry the cold like curses. Seeds left thirsty rot in silence. A crooked smile — always a lie.

Perfection is just the moment before collapse. Love poured in violent floods spoils the tenderness. Sunlight? A slow-burning death beneath the skin.

If I don’t lie, someone will — and worse. Doubt comes like a convoy, crushing the will to conquer.

To feel nothing is to be already buried. Without trust, I’ll never carve my name into forever.

To give freely is to bleed later. One day I stand on skulls, the next I’m swallowed by the dirt. Lights that shine too brightly scorch the eyes until they darken.

All wounds rot into scars, and none of them forget. My words mean nothing — you don’t hear my soul. If I can’t believe, I exist without dreams. My fears don’t kill, but they shackle every step. Love without respect is a slow death, bloated by ego.

Ignore my cries — you erase my worth. Hold a rose too tightly, and the thorns will love your blood. Admire without touch — and all beauty dies, untouched. If all is wrong in the eyes, the heart takes the blow — and nothing will ever mend it again.

Knives dulled by time can still be sharpened — and they will cut deep. The screams I buried may claw their way back, and when they do, they’ll anchor themselves into my bones.

My steps continue, but tremble with fear. If I don’t turn these shattered glass pieces into feathers,

I’ll bleed out — alone — on this endless road.


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