They say, choose your battles because not all battles are worth fighting for...

I say - in choosing which battle, 

You have to choose those battles that you know you will win. 

Stop fighting battles that are worthy but are losing, 

For it is not your battle, it is God's.

I say - choose the ones already written in your victory.

Lay down the swords that drain your spirit,

Leave the wars that were never meant for you to win.

Some battles are worthy, yes—

But not yours to bleed for.

Losing battles are for God's, 

For only Him could win it for you.

Your Wounds Learned to Spark

 Some would blow your candle to make theirs shine brighter. 

Some would cup their hands around your flame

To extinguish it,

Thinking your darkness will intensify theirs.

But here's the truth...

They can blow your candle however they like.

They may bend your wick, 

Steal your air, 

Scatter wax across the floor,

But they can never dim you.

They cannot touch what burns beneath. 

You will still shine because you have your inner light. 

You will always glow.

Because you were never just a hand holding a flame.

You are the Fire.

Blow after blow,

You will blaze.

For you are not a borrowed brilliance,

You beam from your marrow.

Your wounds learned how to spark.

And as for them, they will always be in the dark 

For they have darkness in their hearts. 

They will never glow, 

They will never shine brighter even though how many candles they blow, 

For they only have artificial light.

That darkness in their hearts are eating away their flickering artificial light.

So no matter how many flames they silence,

The darkness still lives within them,

Gnawing at their fragile flicker,

Devouring the very light they pretend to hold.

Remember - inner light is not given.

It is forged.

Flowers Are...

 

A Tender Wolf of Lily

 

Oh, what a lady you are —

Born a Juliet of summer songs,

Soft with silk dreams,

And golden promises.

But life raised you,

To become Cleopatra of your own.

To not believe in forevers,

But create your own existence.

Oh! What a pretty sight

When everything fell apart.

Only for you to survive

And live in embers.

To warm your hands

To create a kingdom,

Where cold 

Could never seeped through.

You befriended the winter,

So it's frost cannot bite you.

The snow became your shield,

The wind became your bow.

And oh! What a pretty sight!

Of a lady you've become.

From princess to warrior,

From armour to crown.

The Grind

To grind is to labor in the quiet.

For within the pressure and the turning,

Against the weight of resistance,

Is when friction becomes refinement.

To be polished to awaken the senses,

Softening the morning,

As aroma arises,

To breath out richness.

 

 But Life was never meant

To be always at the center of the stage,

Beneath blinding lights,

And rehearsed applause.

More often,

It is about shining behind the spotlight. 

For who needs artificial light,

When you're glowing from the inside.

Of Mundane Things and Sweet Nothings

 For life is about mundane things that we turn into sweet nothings.

Memoirs of Rainy Days

 There is something beautiful after the rain.

Maybe the scent...

The petrichor that lingers after the waters from heaven touched the earth.

Or maybe the colors...

The blue and gray that defies the yellow.

Or maybe those little drops...

That still holding on to something,

 Defying the fall...

Until they just become mist, 

Never touching the ground.

Captured in Motion

But Life moves in gentle tides,
Drifting forward then pulling back again.
Time keeps its quiet rhythm,
Never slowing, never waiting.