Life counts in bruises,
Life counts in bruises, not birthdays. Time doesn't wear a watch. It drips from cracked ceilings, laughs from old photographs, and steals names from gravestones one heartbeat at a time. Love... Love builds cathedrals with shaking hands, then forgets where it left the key. Hate... Hate is a house that eats its own walls, leaving only echoes to call home. Why? Why do stars burn just to disappear? Why do we kiss knowing goodbye is already breathing between our lips? Why do tears arrive before the words do? Every note I sing has a scar underneath it. Every silence knows the melody better than I do. I've smiled with storms hiding behind my teeth. I've cried until my reflection looked like a stranger. I've run from ghosts that learned my footsteps. I've hidden inside crowds loud enough to drown my own name. And somewhere, between hope and regret, I wrapped my hands around choices I swore would save me... Only to choke on my own decisions. Still... Morning keeps showing up, reckless as wildflowers pushing through broken concrete. Maybe that's what living is. Not winning. Not losing. Just breathing through the smoke, finding one more note, one more reason, one more impossible sunrise... Until time finally whispers, "You were never meant to be perfect. You were meant to be real."
You may also like
Leave a comment
Life counts in bruises, not birthdays. Time doesn't wear a watch. It drips from cracked ceilings, laughs from old photographs, and steals names from gravestones one heartbeat at a time. Love... Love builds cathedrals with shaking hands, then forgets where it left the key. Hate... Hate is a house that eats its own walls, leaving only echoes to call home. Why? Why do stars burn just to disappear? Why do we kiss knowing goodbye is already breathing between our lips? Why do tears arrive before the words do? Every note I sing has a scar underneath it. Every silence knows the melody better than I do. I've smiled with storms hiding behind my teeth. I've cried until my reflection looked like a stranger. I've run from ghosts that learned my footsteps. I've hidden inside crowds loud enough to drown my own name. And somewhere, between hope and regret, I wrapped my hands around choices I swore would save me... Only to choke on my own decisions. Still... Morning keeps showing up, reckless as wildflowers pushing through broken concrete. Maybe that's what living is. Not winning. Not losing. Just breathing through the smoke, finding one more note, one more reason, one more impossible sunrise... Until time finally whispers, "You were never meant to be perfect. You were meant to be real."