Total collection

Full collection

Section 1: Reflection

Am I a Bad Person?

Am I a bad person
when he was dying
and I thought
what it would be like without him?

Would it be quieter?
Calmer?
Peaceful, even?

Am I a bad person
to dream about what he used to be
and hate the person he has become?

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Wondering

Was it cruel of me
to wonder what life would be like without him?

Would it be quieter?
Calmer?
Peaceful, even?

Is it wrong to dream of who he once was,
and hate the person he has become?

I am older now,
but he has changed.

The man I call my father
I no longer recognise.

The younger me
terrified of what's to come.

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Section 2: Family / Coping

Masks

Dad is not okay.
Mum is not okay.
My sister is not okay.
I am not okay.

We all pretend we are.
We put on our brave faces.
We smile and laugh when we're supposed to.
We show up and help everyone else,
but never ourselves.

We come home and take off our masks.
We let our smiles droop to frowns.
We let each other finally be.
Our eyes droop to tears and sleep.

But the sun rises,
and so do we.
We raise our heads,
put our masks back on,
smile and laugh.
Still, we are not okay.

Dad is not okay.
Mum is not okay.
My sister is not okay.
I am not okay.
We all are not okay.

And still nobody notices.
Behind our smiles, the silence grows louder.
Each unspoken word pulls tighter, harder.
The masks we wear become chains.
Inside, the storm begins to rage.

I speak, but my voice cracks,
lost in the weight of thoughts that suffocate.
Their eyes on me,
searching, watching, waiting.
They try to help,
but they don't understand.

My mind is a maze I can't escape.
Their bony fingers grasp tight,
never letting go.
Forever on a leash under their thumb,
by the one who is supposed to set you free.

Trembling, my breath shallow,
I don't know what to do.
How do I make it stop?

My world is spinning,
spinning out of control.
A distant pounding in my ears,
a stretch of empty desert all around.
I am alone.

With no one to hear my screams,
how do I tell someone
something they don't want to hear?
Their heads in the sand, ignorant,
while I am drowning, suffocating by my own thoughts.

How do I help someone who doesn't want help?
How do I show them I am here?
How do I shine my light
on all their darkness?
Bring them light, bring them joy,
help them find love and laughter?

What once was a spark now crackles and roars.
A burning desire of love blossoms,
embraced in a hug supportive and kind.

My chest swells with joy and sparkles.

In agony and holding you back,
in a room full of thousands, alone.
Struggling against a rope with no slack,
surrounded by many but still alone.

You wonder, tangled in your own web of darkness,
searching for the light,
tearing through the sadness,
reaching with all your might.

But there's hope.
You've made it.
Clinging to the lifeboat.
Staring into the distance,
bursting with brightness.

Holding your stance.
You survived this.
You reached the stars.
All hopes and dreams no longer afar.

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Section 3: Grief & Metaphorical Pain

We Mourn a Man Who Still Breathes

We mourn a man who still breathes.
He smiles.
He laughs and jokes.
And just for a second — he's back.
A glimmer of what once was.

But just as fast,
the switch flicks.
The air thickens.
And he's gone.

The drywall crumbles.
The wooden chair cracks and splinters.
The glass shatters.

I know it's not him.
It's the illness.
But I still flinch.
And it still hurts.

There was my dad.
Now — he is gone.
We mourn a man who still breathes.

How do I love someone who hurts me?
Maybe I'll never know.

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Love Kills Slowly

But I love him, she says.
Little does she know — love kills too.

Not as swift as hatred.
No — love kills slowly.
Painfully.
Like torture.

Hatred is quick.
You're gone before you even realize
he's holding the knife.

But love?
Love hands you flowers, knowing you're allergic.
Love strangles you with the gold necklace he bought you.
With love, he hands you the gun
and makes you pull the trigger.
With love, he gives you the knife,
knowing you'd rather die than watch others suffer.

But I love him, she says — again.
Little does she know...
Sometimes, love isn't enough.

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Section 4: Trauma / Internal Conflict

Not His Words

How do I tell my mind it's not him?
How do I tell my heart not to hurt?
How do I tell myself they're not his words —
when they come from within,
but they're not his words?

The anger boils from deep inside,
a simple nudge — he's over the edge.
And nothing can bring him down.

They're not his words,
but they come from within.

The switch goes off inside his chest,
and it's no longer him.
The words slash and slice at my heart
as drywall crumbles,
and glass shatters.

How do I tell my mind it's not him?
How do I tell my heart not to hurt?
When it all comes from him.

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Section 5: Chaos / Climax

If They Don't Stop

She's lost it —
but so has he.

I can't stand the screaming anymore,
but neither can she.

She gives everything,
he takes it all.
It doesn't only affect them.

The little girl
picks up the knife.
Blood blooms across her skin.

Physical pain
has to be easier
than her heart.

But when will
the sharp sting of the knife
stop being enough?

When will it go too deep?

If they don't stop,
neither will she.

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Sitting in the Darkness

Sitting in the darkness,
we watch them scream at each other,
and our hearts scream for them to stop.

Doors slam.
Glass shatters.
Our minds are racing.

How can we make it stop?

The blade is drawn.
The blade draws blood.

It stops for a moment —
then again.
The blade is drawn,
and again,
it draws blood.

Still, it doesn't stop.
Neither does the bleeding.

Only one heart is left pounding.
Only one mind left racing,
sitting in the darkness,
watching them scream
at each other.