And funnel it all through heart, mind, and brain.

It is freedom to smile when the cameras roll,

To balance the weight of a scripted role.

But greater still is the quiet art,

Of staying true to a tender heart.

The lights may fade, the applause subside,

But freedom is found on the soul’s inside.

It is not the fame, the roar, the glare,

But the strength to know yourself out there.

To soar alone where dreams take flight,

To harness the stars that pierce the night,

To hold your ground, through storms that reign,

And transform the struggle into gain.

For freedom is not the wind’s embrace,

Nor the fleeting charm of a familiar face.

It’s the wisdom to see, the strength to know,

That to truly be free, you must let yourself grow.

So let the stars be your silent guide,

Let the truth within you coincide.

For freedom is not just to flee—

It is to stand, unbroken, and simply be.

“There is a solemnity in decay, where time itself breathes heavier than silence, and every crack whispers secrets of the past. In Venice, I found a room that seemed to listen to its own sorrow.”

In the depth of a Venetian night,

Beneath the moon’s uncertain light,

A woman stands where shadows fall,

Her voice caught in an ancient hall.

The walls, adorned with vintage tears,

Bear witness to forgotten years.

Each faded fresco, each fractured stone,

Holds whispers of lives once brightly known.

Beneath the dust of chandeliers,

The room still aches with long-lost fears.

Velvet drapes in tatters cling,

Like ghosts that mourn but cannot sing.

She stands, a figure carved from strength,

Her voice stretched out to its full length.

“Listen,” she cries, “to the echo within,

For silence itself holds where dreams begin.”

A lace gown, crumpled on the floor,

Speaks of nights when love implored,

Yet now, its threads are bare and thin,

A testament to what had been.

Time’s relentless, unyielding tide,

Has robbed this room of all its pride.

The mirror cracks, its gilded frame,

Reflecting only time’s cruel claim.

Yet she, unbowed, unbroken, tall,

Faces the shadows that haunt this hall.

“Do you hear me?” she whispers loud,

“I am not buried beneath the shroud.

These walls may crumble, stone may crack,

But I am here, and I am back.

To speak of love, to speak of fire,

To breathe again, to rise, inspire.”

Her tears do not fall weak or frail,

They run like rivers through the veil.

Of time, of loss, of longing’s weight,