in the quiet corners of her heart,
a tempest brews, unseen by the world—
she wears confidence like armor,
a polished shield against the storm,
but inside, the cracks weep softly,
each heartbeat a tender ache.

she works until the hurt dulls,
until the noise inside quiets,
pouring herself into tasks and toil,
a sculptor molding distraction
from the clay of her own pain.

she walks a tightrope between plans and whim,
a careful architect of order,
yet her soul yearns for wild winds
to carry her to places unknown,
where control dissolves into adventure.

she loves the broken pieces in others,
sees their jagged edges and smiles,
believing she can smooth the shards
with the warmth of her touch,
a healer with empty hands,
always giving, never taking.

maturity came too soon,
a gift wrapped in burdens
that weighed heavy on her shoulders.
she grew roots in rocky soil,
strong but weathered,
her blossoms tinged with sorrow.

in solitude, she finds peace,
not in isolation, but in the stillness
where she stitches her heart together,
a thread of hope against the fabric of realism.
her lens sees the world’s cracks,
each shadow clearer than the light,
yet she moves forward, steady,
with the quiet resolve of one
who has learned to endure.

criticism cuts, sharp and swift,
leaving wounds that sting like fire,
but she lets them bleed,
letting the truth seep in,
until the hurt becomes wisdom,
until the scar becomes strength.

she is a paradox of softness and steel,
a fixer of others, a seeker of peace,
yet her own healing waits, patient,
a quiet whisper beneath the roar
of all she gives to the world.

and maybe one day,
when the tempest settles,
she will turn her hands inward,
mending the fissures of her own soul,
a masterpiece made whole at last.