Lilog224ever
This is not clean. Not neat. Not a story made to comfort anyone. This poem is awake in the hours the world ignores, a mind pacing for decades, a body surviving while chaos hums underneath. It is panic, fear, exhaustion, and the invisible labor of staying present. It is the calculations, the grounding, the silent narrating just to make it through the day. It is laughing mid-spiral, holding everything together while everything inside shakes. It is the tension between appearing fine and surviving anyway. This is not edited, not sanitized, not for applause. It is claiming space, naming experience, documenting what it feels like to exist fully, without compromise, in a world that refuses to pause. Somewhere between fear and faith, panic and clarity, smoke and silence, this poem whispers: you are here. You are real. You are not broken. And your story is yours to finish.