I Am My Own

You are not made of mirrors,

Nor echoes that fade with the crowd.

Your worth is not a whisper,

It does not shrink or shout aloud.

Not in the praise that lifts you,

Nor in the silence that forgets,

Your value isn't borrowed,

It isn’t weighed by one regret.

You are the breath behind the name,

The stillness when the world moves fast,

The ember glowing in the flame,

The roots that hold when storms have passed.

You don’t have to earn your place.

You are enough in still and strife,

A quiet force, a steady grace,

A soul that sings its own true life.

So, stand without apology,

Don’t bend to fit what others see.

Self-worth grows when we believe:

I am my own, and I am free.

Raised with Love

No need for thunder in my voice, 
No iron grip, no fearsome stare—
I choose a gentler, kinder choice, 
To meet your tears with patient care.

I will not rule with clenched command,

Nor strike the soil where trust might grow;

Instead, I’ll guide your little hand,

And walk beside you, soft and slow.

You are not clay to break or bend,

Not storm to tame, nor fire to quell—

You are becoming, my small friend,

And I am here to help you well.

When anger flares or sadness calls,

I’ll kneel and listen, not control—

For in the cracks of tantrum-ed walls,

I see the shape of your whole soul.

I will not shame your tender cries,

Or mock the dreams you try to build—

Your worth does not in silence lie,

But in a voice that feels fulfilled.

So grow, my child, in sun and shade,

In laughter loud and questions deep—

This love, though gentle, will not fade,

Its roots are in promises we keep.

Ready to Burst

I carry silence like a stone,

A weight that’s grown beneath my skin,

Where voices echo, all my own,

And battles rage but stay within.

My chest, a dam of unshed cries,

Of rage and longing tightly sealed,

Each heartbeat pounds like warning signs,

Of truths I’ve never dared revealed.

My lips know well the art of calm,

But tremble with the things unsaid—

A scream dressed up in quiet psalms,

A wildfire cloaked in words I’ve bled.

Tears wait like thunder in my throat,

Too proud to fall, too fierce to drown,

Yet storms don’t ask, they only float—

And strike when no one’s looking down.

How long can one soul cage a flood?

How long can sparks remain inert?

I feel the rupture in my blood—

These pent-up truths are ready to burst.

So if I break, or if I burn,

Don’t call it madness or disgrace—

Even the stars must twist and turn

Before they shine and split through space.

Echoes of stardust

Born of fire, forged in light,  

Drifting through the endless night.  

Ancient stars that lived and died  

Left their dust where we reside.  

Golden embers, silver streams,  

Flow within our souls and dreams.  

The iron in our blood once burned  

In cosmic hearts that spun and turned.  

Galaxies whisper through our veins,  

A trace of moons, a touch of rain.  

The breath we take, the steps we tread,  

Were once a star’s last words unsaid.  

So, when you gaze at skies so wide,  

Feel the universe inside.  

For in your heart, the cosmos glows—  

A spark of dust that never goes.  

The Strings They Pull

 A poem dedicated to kids of narcissistic parents**

 

They call it love, they call it care,  

But in their grip, you gasp for air.  

A silent pact, unspoken, unseen,  

A labyrinth of control wrapped in routine.  

They weave their words, a subtle snare,  

Promising shelter but never what's fair.  

"Do this for us," their whispers decree,  

And freedom is traded for loyalty's plea.  

Their smiles are sweet, their tone benign,  

But hidden beneath, a sharp design.  

They twist your thoughts, make you believe,  

That love is earned, not freely received.  

Every success, they claim as their own,  

Yet your failures, you bear alone.  

Their pride in you feels like a chain,  

Binding you tight to their domain.  

You question yourself, but their gaze is clear:  

"Without us, you'd disappear."  

Yet deep within, a voice takes hold,  

Whispering truths you've never been told.  

Love should uplift, not weigh you down,  

It shouldn’t demand that you must drown.  

For wings are meant to stretch and soar,  

Not clipped to keep you near the floor.  

Break their strings, and rise, take flight,  

For you are more than their shadowed might.  

In your own light, you’ll come to see,  

A love unbound, pure, and free.  

The Mirror Never Lies

Her world is a stage, her face the sun,

Every spotlight hers until the show is done.

She weaves her words in glittering thread,

But the warmth is false, the love misread.

Her laughter is loud, her smile refined,

Yet every gesture is a claim to bind.

"I'm your mother," she says, "I gave you life,

You owe me your soul, your dreams, your strife."

She adorns herself in the cloak of care,

But beneath it lies a heart laid bare—

Not for you, but her endless need,

For praise, for power, for a life to lead.

Your achievements are hers, your pain dismissed,

Her love, a bargain, wrapped in a twist.

She takes your voice, replaces it whole,

Until you're a shadow, a fractured soul.

You tread so lightly, afraid to fall,

Her wrath a tempest, her silence a wall.

No room for you, no space to grow,

In her garden, only her flowers show.

But child of the mirror, don’t despair,

You’re more than her image, more than her glare.

Break the glass, let your spirit ascend,

Her reflection fades; your journey begins.

For the stars are brighter beyond her gaze,

And you are the light she tried to erase.

The Words That Wound

A child sits silent, his heart clenched tight,  

In the echoes of words that steal the light.  

From lips that should cradle, comfort, and care,  

Comes a torrent of pain too heavy to bear.  

"You're worthless, foolish, a burden to all!"  

Her voice like a hammer, her words like a wall.  

No lullabies, no tales of delight,  

Only sharp-edged scorn in the dead of night.  

Her tongue, a blade that cuts to the bone,  

In a house full of people, he feels so alone.  

Each syllable bruises, each sentence stings,  

Shackling his spirit with invisible strings.  

He looks to her face, searching for grace,  

But finds only shadows in its place.  

Her laughter is bitter, her kindness withdrawn,  

And the child wonders what he did wrong.  

His tears are quiet, his cries unheard,  

Drowned by the weight of her biting words.  

The world outside is a distant dream,  

While her anger swells like a raging stream.  

But deep within, a flicker remains,  

A hope that someday he'll break these chains.  

For even in darkness, the smallest flame  

Can whisper of freedom and call his name.  

One day, he'll rise, and her voice will fade,  

Replaced by love that his heart has made.  

Though scars may linger, his soul will soar,  

A child no longer, but something more.  

Invisible Battles

In shadows deep where echoes hide,

A heart beats soft, its pain denied.

Unseen, unheard, the tears do fall,

A silent cry, a muted call.

The world demands a smiling face,

A mask of strength, a stoic grace.

Yet, deep within, the storms do rage,

Unwritten lines on an empty page.

Validation sought, a fleeting gleam,

A fleeting balm to a broken dream.

To hear, "I see you," just once more,

Would mend the cracks, would heal the core.

But silent sufferers walk alone,

Their struggles carved in unseen stone.

For words unspoken, wounds unseen,

Are the heaviest loads, where pain has been.

Oh, gentle soul, know you are heard,

Even in silence, your pain's a word.

Validation blooms where empathy flows,

A soft embrace where the heart knows.

So hold on, though the weight is vast,

The storms will calm, the night won't last.

For even in silence, you're not alone,

Your voice, though unheard, will find its tone.

@ Pozicool Raga

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.