We rise—
not from hashtags’ glow,
but from the noises they make.
Swallowed whole by a world
that insists we matter only when we don’t.
In the TikTok winds,
we sift through lies for anything real,
lavender flowers creeping through cracked pavement,
screaming louder than any algorithm ever could.
In these digital hollows,
a bloom unfurls,
its petals tangled in broken code,
and we follow it.
Not because we know where it leads,
but because it dares to grow
where everything else around it dies.
Rogue spirits,
we scatter petals in the virtual wind,
softly blooming,
even as the noise around us hums,
telling us to fade into the background.
But we’re here,
unraveling the bloom,
trusting that maybe—just maybe—
the cracks will let us in.
