#finding strength

Day 15: Finding Strength.

PROMPTOBER BABYYY (This had been in the works since G/t July, but it FITS)

FINALLY ABLE TO INTRODUCE ROSE'S DESIGN !!

I’ve learned to try a little harder,

to look within myself a little deeper,

to not give up when it’s hard.

Even when there was no hope—

when my mind wanted to kill me—

you made me hold on.

It feels like the first time I’ve dreamed in years.

Like some hopes can still come true.

Like I’m stronger than I believed.

You pulled creativity out of the depths,

from where it drowned in sorrow.

I found love again with you.

You made me smile.

You made me laugh.

You made me feel when I was numb.

You calmed me when I was on fire.

I know I met you for a reason.

You feel like destiny, somehow.

I’ve never been loved

the way you love me.

It scares me.

It overwhelms me.

I don’t deserve how precious your heart is.

Why would you do this for me?

I hate being so scared,

so in pain.

I wish I could drop everything in a heartbeat for you—

because you are worth it.

You are real.

I just want to feel it closer.

Where it’s safe.

And I know you are.

You always make me feel

I was useful which is another word for disposable when spoken quietly enough

They loved me best when I had nothing of my own No needs, no edges, no no I was a door left unlocked a glass that refilled itself a body mistaken for a resource

They called it connection I called it exhaustion with a smile Every favor sharpened its teeth every thank you a receipt proving I had been spent

I learned my value in increments how much I could give before I vanished How little it took for them to leave once I stopped

Hands reached for me only when empty Never to hold only to take inventory I became fluent in being overlooked while standing right fucking there

When I cracked they asked what was wrong with me as if glass chooses to shatter as if being drained isn’t a predictable outcome of constant thirst

Now I count what’s missing time, warmth, pieces of myself I handed out like samples hoping someone would want the whole thing

I am angry in quiet ways I flinch at kindness I hoard my silence like its the last thing that can’t be stolen

If they ask who I am now I won’t answer quickly I’m still learning the difference between being needed and being consumed

She, the Storm-Wrought Temple

She was born in a house

where shadows learned to speak,

where a child’s dawn was stolen

by hands that pretended to be light.

And later

when her life should have been spring

winter returned in human form,

leaving frost on skin

that once trusted warmth.

Yet she rose.

Not as a survivor,

but as a citadel

stone forged from lightning,

marble veined with memories

that would have crumbled gentler souls.

People look at her

and see a tower untouched by storms,

never knowing the hurricanes

she swallowed whole

to keep the sky clear for others.

But inside that tower

lives a small ember

a soft, trembling glow

that longs not for rescue,

but for rest.

At night, her fire changes color,

not rage,

not fear

but a secret crimson yearning.

A desire to be held

like rare crystal

by hands that know

both strength and mercy.

Her sensuality is not a wound

it is a garden

that grew again after the burn.

A place of fragrant dusk,

where she dreams of losing herself

only in arms

that feel like dusk settling on water

soft, inevitable,

safe.

Her heart is a paradox,

a warrior’s drum

wrapped in the hush of a child

who still believes

in gentleness.

She is a temple rebuilt

from ruins the world tried to hide,

a flame refusing to dim,

a woman who carries both

the storm and the calm that follows it.

Strength is her architecture,

vulnerability her secret hymn,

and longing

the silent river

I found it moving.

Purpose is now more important than ever.

I think we’re all finding ours or getting deeper into it.

We all need something that makes life bearable by being lost in the process.

I’m surprised how many people need, or at least strongly desire it to be highly relationally and economically fulfilling to even consider a purpose or hobby.

Our current culture online is very critical. That’s why it’s my mission to radically enjoy things, even if they aren’t for me. There’s no need for me to be judgemental to harmless things.

Being a critic isn’t a bad thing, but it comes with the responsibility of meaning, not just pointing out what’s wrong with others and their works. That’s just being a jerk.

For me, I am a multi-medium artist and multi-instrumentalist musician.

We can argue about being a jack of all trades or master of one, but I don’t need to perfect at guitar or writing to say what I want to say artistically.

This movie makes me shudder at the thought it wouldn’t be made available if haters and critical people had their way.