Don’t worry, my sweetest,
I write you into every poem.
Even if we can’t see each other,
I read you every now and then—
While holding the book of love
To my heart.
It whispers your name, your eyes,
Your sweet cheeks and your red nose—
Which is more than enough
To make me fall in love all over again;
Like the rebirth of us mentioned
In every sacred book,
Or like a wandering fish
Finally off the hook.
Overthinking is when the mind keeps running even when the heart is tired. We replay old moments, imagine future problems, and create fears that do not even exist yet. Slowly, peace slips away not because life is hard, but because our thoughts never rest. The art of not overthinking is
Red‑pill content doesn’t just sell advice, it plants fear. It teaches men to see relationships as power games, women as threats, and vulnerability as weakness. It convinces people that love must be earned through dominance, money, or emotional distance, rather than mutual respect and growth. What it’s
A quiet clock inhales the night, Twelve breaths held, then set to fly. Old worries loosen their tight grip, Like leaves that finally say goodbye. The year ahead stands, clean and wide, A page still warm from winter’s hand. With hopeful ink and steady heart, We write our dreams
If it was meant to be, it would have happened—people love to say that, as if fate works alone, as if it doesn’t sometimes wait for hands brave enough to reach for it. I’ve learned that destiny isn’t rigid; it bends. There are endless paths, countless