Real things need to grow,
maybe needing,
water,
advice,
or revisions.
things need effort, the quiet art of tending
the slow practice
of choosing to care.
Unlike a plastic flower which doesn't grow
Since there's nothing to give
Nothing to take or show,
It's pretty low,
Fruitless and the without rest,
Maybe it's best to give it a test,
If there's nothing to give no roots will grow,
If you give the wind no air
There's nothing to blow
Are you still questioning what that shows?
If you try to throw but
Put no effort to let go
It will look only as if you froze
your hand stays tight,
your motion frozen,
No arc,
no distance,
no proof of how far
you could throw
and if so,
then no growth
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 7:36 PM UTC
The tide rolls in, soft and slow,
Sweet nothings whispered and repeated by the wind.
Soft laughter spilling warmth across my chest,
Cut off the feelings dry,
as the tide recides, cruel and quiet.
pulling warmth and leaving a chilling hollow,
questions flare as the tide pulls in.
drawing me in, then letting me go again.
Making me wonder if this was ever fine,
questioning if you just played as mine.
i thought you were one of one,
nothing like the other ones.
But you were just a wave that hit
then vanished back into the sea.
Making me chase you into the ocean, as you secretly fled.
The waves still carry you, yet your shadow stays,
leaving nothing but a hollow gaze.
yet hollow traces stay in the tide,
where secrets drift and settle quiet
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 7:17 PM UTC
Golden leaves whisper,
your hand warms mine through the chill,
hearts drift close, like dusk.
Sweet nothings whispered,
as the sweet autumn air sways by.
underneath the amber sky,
Leaves falling from so high.
more whispers from a breeze so bright.
Each leaf speaking of bliss,
some highs of haze,
masked in shades of rust.
if only Sweet nothings could last forever.
in this sweet autumn weather
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 7:17 PM UTC
I spent years trying to disappear,
and somehow ended up finding myself instead.
In reflections I used to avoid,
I now see the small revolutions
a curve of a smile,
One that i once thought was crooked.
Counting flaws as if something forbidden,
Maybe beauty isn’t a mirror thing,
maybe it’s the courage to be seen.
every imperfection keeping small truths
and in the right light,
I finally look like someone I could love.
Someone who was allowed to hold
the mirror steady,
and see the sky looking back.
one who doesnt flinch or shrink under another's gaze,
I’ve learned that beauty isn’t found
it’s remembered, piece by piece,
in the soft corners of becoming.
And maybe that’s enough,
to stand here, seen,
finally whole,
and call it love.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 7:15 PM UTC
I walk the bridge at dusk,
each plank holding echoes of footsteps that aren’t mine.
Bridges don’t ask questions,
they just hold the distance between two hearts.
Each plank remembers the footsteps
of those who crossed before me.
Each plank holding weight
it does not ask for,
and every step
is a promise to the unseen.
We cross,
half afraid of falling,
half longing to arrive
on the other side
where maybe someone
is waiting.
Bridges do not judge
the haste of hearts,
nor the hesitance of feet.
And in the hush between planks,
the distance becomes something soft,
something that waits
for us to trust it enough to walk again.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 7:14 PM UTC
a feeling I should oppose,
yet here I am,
residing under your breath
as I fall right in.
inject me into your skin,
let me be your fix,
the one you confess to
when you close your eyes.
you’re the drug
and the cure.
your voice
chillingly sweet,
dripping like bittersweet incentives,
a dangerous kind of comfort.
a sedative pull that drags me
intoxicatingly closer
even when I know I shouldn’t.
soft as a confession,
as steady as surrender,
a quiet ache I can’t shake,
a touch that feels like giving in
long before I realize
I already have.
because loving you
isn’t a choice I make
it’s a habit I wake up with.
and I don’t know
if I’m healing
or just learning
how to live addicted.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 10:54 AM UTC
Now i haven't been here long enough to fully understand it,
but long enough to know that
The most masculine thing a man can do
is be gentle.
Not loud.
Not feared.
Not the kind of strong
that leaves bruises on walls
or silence in a room.
we're taught at a young age that
to be masculine, to be a man
you have to be strong, or tough.
but if we are being clear about this topic,
control would be considered strength yes?
then how wouldn't being gentle be strength
if to be gentle you have to control
of one's emotions and actions
to have humility rather then pride.
Anyone can dominate,
Anyone can intimidate.
but not many can soften their grip,
long before it tightens.
It takes courage
to stay kind, in a world that rewards cruelty
and calls it power.
We're taught at a young age,
that this reckless cruelty is power.
that its strength and in order to be masculine
we must have this strength.
but behind that recklessness,
the truth remains,
A gentle man
isnt weak, he's controlled.
he's steady, he knows that protection
isnt the same as posession.
That leadership
does not require fear.
The most masculine thing a man can do
is make the people around him
feel safe
not small.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 10:52 AM UTC
Sometimes I question if I'm aromantic,
And lately I've been questioning it again.
You know that saying,
You only fall in love three times,
maybe it's true
But if it is,
I think I’d like a retry.
My first taught me what love was not,
That's concerning cause
I thought that was the second's job
My second teaching me what it could be seen to be
But could ly there like a hidden corruption
that erupted when seen.
So before my third
I worked on myself to get better help,
Cause I thought just maybe the problem was me,
Maybe I loved too little.
Or too carefully.
Or too late.
So I had the means to let it lean,
And it truly turned into a scene
she was a lovely brunette with dark amber eyes
that didn’t feel like a warning.
And that’s what scared me.
Because she didnt feel
like a lesson.
She didnt feel
like chaos.
She felt steady.
Like something my mind invented
to prove I could still believe in love.
unlike prior i gave myself the illusion
of perfection, and believed the delusion
believing she was flawless,
and you know maybe i was color blind
with how i let the red flags look green.
Maybe the third love
wasn’t fate giving me what love should truely be.
maybe it was fate teaching me
no one is flawless,
even radiant marble has cracks.
Even the calmest ocean has undercurrents.
Even the safest hands carry old scars.
but rather then see them as red flags,
to fall in love with the flaws
Maybe that’s where i went wrong
searching for something
while blinded by the perfect shown by media
Because loving someone
isn’t ignoring the cracks.
It’s seeing them clearly
and choosing
to trace them gently
instead of calling it damage.
It’s knowing
where the knife was
and not making it deeper
Maybe the third love
wasn’t fate rewarding me
with perfection.
Maybe it was teaching me
that real love
isn’t flawless
it’s intentional.
So maybe I’m still questioning
if I’m aromantic.
Maybe I question it
And maybe that saying is true.
you only fall in love three times.
But if that’s the case
I don’t want perfection.
I don’t want a lesson.
I just want a retry.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 10:46 AM UTC
burn the rulebook.
Burn the book
that says Black people can’t swim,
as if water ever checked skin
before deciding who could float.
Burn the page
that said Asians are only math and silence,
as if brilliance has one face
and emotion has none.
Burn the paragraph
that turned Hispanic into “illegal,”
as if borders were more sacred
than bloodlines.
Burn the footnote
that reduced Europeans to conquest,
as if history is only its worst moments
and never its art, its music, its revolutions.
Burn the chapter
that told white boys
they cannot cry,
that strength is measured
in suppression.
Burn the margins
where stereotypes live—
the jokes,
the backhanded compliments,
the “you’re not like the others.”
Burn the myth
that any race
is a monolith.
Burn the lie
that culture is costume.
Burn the quiet expectation
that some must be loud,
some must be submissive,
some must be dangerous,
some must be dominant.
Burn the idea
that identity is a box
instead of a spectrum.
Because rulebooks like that
don’t protect anyone.
They shrink us.
They tell Black kids the water isn’t theirs.
Tell Asian kids their feelings don’t matter.
Tell Hispanic kids their roots are suspect.
Tell white kids empathy is weakness.
Tell everyone
to perform.
And then we wonder
why we grow up
misunderstanding each other.
Burn the rulebook.
Not to erase history—
but to stop confusing stereotype
with truth.
And when the ashes settle,
leave only this:
No race
owes you a performance.
No culture
exists for your comfort.
And no child
should inherit
a limitation
they never chose.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 10:43 AM UTC
It’s been a year.
No
maybe two.
And I had no idea
you would affect me this much.
For a while
you were everywhere.
In my habits.
In my playlists.
In the way I measured new people
against a memory
that wasn’t even kind to me.
But now
I’m starting to forget you.
Your touch.
Your smile.
The way my world
once revolved around you
like I had no gravity of my own.
And maybe that’s a good thing.
Maybe this is what healing
actually looks like.
Not fireworks.
Not a dramatic goodbye.
Just your name
feeling lighter
when I say it in my head.
Just your face
getting harder to picture
without effort.
I used to think letting go
would feel like losing something.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like
making space.
Like stepping into a new chapter—
or maybe
finally closing the one
I kept rereading
hoping the ending would change.
It’s been a year.
Maybe two.
And for the first time,
you feel
like the past
instead of the center of my present
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 10:43 AM UTC