BeyondTheTrends

 They said my body was a canvas, but they forgot— paint can stain, and words leave cracks that no brush can cover. They called me names I never wore, stitched letters into my skin that never belonged to me, and when I stood up, the floor shook under the weight of my voice. They didn’t like that sound— too sharp, too loud, too me. I built a wall out of every whisper I swallowed, every glance that felt like a knife, and I stood guard alone. Because no one stands for the girl who stands for everyone else. The girl who bleeds herself dry patching up the wounds they pretend don’t exist. They said my body was a canvas. I say it’s a war zone, where every scar tells a story they will never have the courage to read. And maybe my heart isn’t gone— maybe it’s just buried under the rubble. Waiting. For me. -Sheeza

 Leave me alone. Three words that are lonely by themselves. Leave. Sometimes, it's not about the rage— it's about the tears that come out while saying it. It’s not because I don’t like you. It’s not because I want to hurt you. It’s because I don’t want to hurt you— or myself. And I know that caring for myself will make me seem selfish, or in fancier terms, narcissistic. Oh, sorry—now you’re going to tell me I don’t even know how to spell that. Got it. (ts) You just call yourself picky for pointing out my mistakes, trying to hide the shade by saying you want it to be perfect. But perfection comes from within— and within are the imperfections you should learn to admire. That’s me. Alone is not lonely. Alone is cherishing, fun, true. True to one’s identity, away from all the audacity. They are there, yet unknown to the naked eye. But they’re there—not for picture-perfect lives or carefully posed selfies, but for the memories. They are enjoyable. -Sheeza

 Neglecting is a way to express irritation And confusion is a word that conveys unsurety. A friendship is supposedly comfort. Once here, one there, dangling— plucking me out, basking in praise that's yours. But the fact is, you do deserve it, and I give it to you too. But a one-way street leads to accidents, And hurt is a result of that. Once you feel it, It's time whose hands tick now. Leaving me stranded is what you will regret in a roundabout. -Sheeza

You sit in your room, the dim glow of your desk lamp casting shadows on the empty sketchbook in front of you. It’s been months—maybe even a year—since you’ve touched a pencil with the intent to create, and the thought stings more than you’d like to admit. There was a time when drawing, painting, or sketching was your escape, a world where nothing else mattered. You could spend hours lost in the flow of colors and shapes, pouring your heart into every stroke. Back then, you felt alive—free. But now, it feels like a distant memory, a luxury you no longer have time for. Your schedule is a blur of deadlines, expectations, and responsibilities. School demands perfection. Family expects results. The world moves too fast for you to keep up. The pressure presses down like a weight on your chest, suffocating every ounce of creativity that once flowed so easily. You stare at the blank page, the pencil trembling in your hand. You want to draw, to paint, to bring that part of you back to life. But...

The Shattered Hourglass Time once slipped between us, like sand through an hourglass— steady, quiet, inevitable. Now it shatters. Grains cut the air, sharp as the silence we never meant to hold. Your presence was a lighthouse— bright, unwavering, but drowned beneath waves no ship could outlast. Not yours. Not mine. A storm sent by skies we couldn’t name. Each unspoken word falls like glass shards. I step through them, careful, cautious— yet they still find my skin, leaving marks I’ll never show. What is distance, if not a thief, stealing what could have been with hands unseen? We were not fire, we were not flame. We were smoke, soft, dissolving. And though the hourglass is gone, its grains still linger, tiny, relentless, etching your absence into the marrow of my bones. -Sheeza

the quiet of the dark, A spark dares to dance. Brief but bold, It whispers of chance. It flares in the stillness, A fleeting fire, Yet in its glow, Lies a silent desire. Not every step is measured, Not every move planned, Sometimes the spark ignites, With no map in hand. -Sheeza