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

Sitting in Sadness


Sitting in Sadness

Observing and accepting

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Set out to do one thing — redirected by the hush of fate, a soft collision with a force unseen but unmistakably near. Stillness gathers like twilight fog — hush louder than any storm.

Shadows stretch across the soul’s ceiling — not angry, just aching. Loneliness doesn’t wail; it hums. A low, ancient melody — threaded through breaths we forgot we were taking.

But we remain.

Stubborn as stars behind clouded skies — patient as seedlings — waiting for a thaw.

Eastward eyes scan the dim horizon where future dawns rehearse — just out of reach. Hope huddles under threadbare robes whilst still standing.

Puff.

There goes another thought — skinless, stinging — carried like smoke toward the sky — a prayer with no return address, a scream dressed as mist.

~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