Beware


Beware

Releasing of the chaotic world

Photo by Tony Yakovlenko on Unsplash

Mass confusion spills — a flood of fractured mirrors — each shard a scream,
every echoed lie we almost believed. Chaos unleashed — a serpent slithering thought — twisting calm into panic, clarity into fog.

Anxiety breeds fear — breeding further the fury — misled into silence — the kind that howls inside your chest.

We admit it. We name the storm. And still it grows — a cyclone of belief,
disfigured, unrelenting.

Until — a breath.

A pause.

A moment of stillness between the waves.

We break the chain, witnessing the illusion. We rise, not above but
through it.

The Mind Reclaims Its Power
We are not the storm.
We are the sky that holds it.

The architects of thought, not the prisoners.
Dismantling the scaffolding of inherited fear — stripping away the rusted beams of false narratives.

Each breath is a hammer — Each truth is a chisel.
We carve space where once there was only noise.

We are the silence, speaking louder than panic.
The stillness that unravels the lie.

Reconstruction
From the rubble of distortion, we build.
Not walls, but windows.

Not cages, but corridors — leading inward, leading upward.

We are not broken.
We are breaking free.

~Ani Po


Much gratitude to those who take the time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of themselves to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and, more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

Something in the Blood


Something in the Blood

Ignited Fire in the belly

We didn’t come this far to bow — to silence nor sorrow.
There’s something in the blood — feral, unyielding — a rhythm that refuses to hush.

Every setback taught us — tensile snap of bending without breaking.
We’ve swallowed storms — worn grief like armor, and still — we rise,
cracked open but luminous.

We speak in the dialect of scar tissue — not bitter, but fluent
in what it means to keep breathing — air burning thin.

Look —

the horizon doesn’t wait for permission.

It erupts.

So we chase — fists full of light — mouths full of names we refuse to forget.
Hope isn’t soft — it’s sinew.

It’s bootprints in frozen mud — a pulse beneath the rubble — a shout through teeth clenched against the wind.

We are not fragile things.

We are forged.

And tonight — stars blinking in approval — dragging our stories,
still burning — into the next dawn. Something of — fiery rhythm — Blood Remains.

~Ani Po


Much gratitude to those who take the time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of themselves to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and, more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash