The ghost of time

time is a silent thief
slipping through unnoticed cracks
it steals moments before we realize their worth
turning laughter into echoes
and memories into shadows
we grasp at its passing
but it slips like sand through fingers
leaving behind only the ghost of what was
what once seemed endless
is now a faint whisper
reminding us that nothing stays
and time takes everything


My reflection

I catch glimpses of myself
little fragments in the mirror
I see someone
both familiar and strange
the face holds stories
some clear
some blurred
and others yet to be told
there’s a comfort
in the known lines
a restlessness
in the unfamiliar shadows
my reflection changes as I do
revealing not just who I’ve been
but hints of who I might become
every single glance
asks me the same silent question

are you the person you thought you would be

Shattered

the past lingers like shards of glass
cutting where memories are still tender
broken shadows gather in corners
slipping between moments like ghosts
each step forward tugs at hidden wounds
where echoes of voices
whisper in the stillness
it is a quiet ache
a reminder that what was shattered
cannot be pieced back
it remains a haunting within
stitched to the bones
fading but never truly gone

Each breath

it’s like the sun 
catching the ocean at dawn
just a brief glint of warmth 
where I thought only shadows would linger 
in a crowded world
where moments drift like passing ships 
there’s this thought of you 
anchored quietly in my mind
it’s where you exist
just between each breath
and where I hope you’ll stay
long after the last one

Pieces of her

pieces of her 
scattered into the universe
like stars torn from the night sky
each fragment
a whisper of who she once was
drifts quietly among galaxies 
some shimmer softly in the distance 
while others burn brightly
leaving trails of light in the infinite dark 
and though she is temporary
the universe knows her name 
weaving her fragments 
into its endless story 
piece by piece 
breath by breath

Storyteller

with her ink upon these pages
verses flow like whispers
carrying the scars that she hides
through her poetry
the world comes alive
every line a window into her soul
every letter a heartbeat
her story unfolds
not in the bounds of prose
but in the delicate dance
of meter and metaphor
painting emotions more vividly
than any narrative ever could
and in the end
the poem itself becomes the storyteller
a timeless echo of her life