People laugh at waiting now.
they call it foolish,
old fashioned,
something only lonely people do
because this generation
treats love like rented clothes
worn for a season
then forgotten in somebody else’s room
but I still believe
some hearts are worth staying soft for
and maybe that makes me dangerous
because even after distance
pulled us apart like continents,
I still speak about her
like someone who might return
not obsessively
not desperately
just gently
like leaving the porch light on
for somebody who once called your house home
she was clumsy in the cutest ways
always stealing my hoodies
as if they belonged to her more than me
and maybe one still smells like my cologne
in the corner of her room somewhere
maybe not
but love was never about ownership to me
I did not love her
so she could stay forever
I loved her
because my soul recognized peace
inside another person
and that is rare
people think patience means suffering
but sometimes
patience is beautiful
sometimes it is simply saying:
“the world may teach people to replace each other quickly,
but I refuse to treat real love
like something disposable.”
I am not waiting
because I cannot move on
I am waiting
because some people arrive once
and even absence
cannot convince the heart
to call them ordinary
so if she ever returns,
she will not find anger here
only a quieter version of the boy
who loved her honestly
the first time.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 5:38 AM UTC
A mother cries differently.
not loudly,
not the kind of crying
that asks the world to stop,
hers arrives quietly
between unfinished prayers,
between sleepless nights,
between pretending
she is stronger than she feels.
a mother can break
and still wake up early
to make sure everyone else survives
that is the terrifying beauty of her love
she carries storms
inside a voice soft enough
to calm a child,
and somehow
even when life empties her hands,
she still finds a way
to give,
I think God made mothers
from pieces of sacrifice,
because no ordinary heart
could survive loving this hard.
I have seen mothers smile
with tears hiding behind their teeth,
seen them choose hunger
so their children could call themselves full,
seen them lose themselves
just to make sure
their children are found
and still
the world calls them ordinary,
but there is nothing ordinary
about a woman
who turns pain into protection.
nothing ordinary
about hands that heal
even when they are wounded themselves,
a mother’s tear
is not weakness
it is the price of caring too deeply
in a world
that rarely cares back
and maybe that is why
heaven listens carefully
when mothers speak
because even God understands
that a mother’s love
is one of the closest things
to divinity
this earth will ever touch.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 1:42 AM UTC
they think it’s the smoke
I crave most
but it’s not
it’s the feeling after,
that soft untangling of the mind,
like the world finally loosens
its grip around my throat
like silence becoming warm enough
to sit beside,
some people fall in love
to feel less alone,
I light something instead
and watch the loneliness blur
at the edges.
the smoke curls slowly,
almost human,
like it understands
things I never say aloud
and for a moment,
everything hurts quieter
my thoughts stop racing each other,
my chest forgets its heaviness,
and the night feels less
like something to survive
maybe that’s why I return to it,
not for escape
but for the illusion
that peace can be inhaled,
because sometimes
a rolled-up flame
feels easier to hold
than my own feelings
and maybe that’s dangerous,
to mistake temporary calm
for healing
but still,
on certain nights,
with the room dim
and my mind exhausted,
the smoke feels
too much like comfort
to say no to it
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 11:23 AM UTC
“Some things were never meant for messages,
they were meant to be written slowly,
until they felt like truth.”
If the world still sent letters through birds,
I would send you too many,
each one failing
to finish what the last began.
If ink could carry weight,
these words would arrive heavy,
pulling at your hands
like they refused to be put down.
I would write you in pauses,
in margins,
in the spaces where honesty
usually hides.
I would tell you
that what I feel has outgrown silence,
that it sits with me,
patient, certain,
becoming something I can no longer rename.
And if this letter reached you,
creased, unfinished, still warm,
you would not have to search between the lines
to understand it.
I have tried to call it something smaller,
something easier to hold,
but it is not.
It is love,
not the loud but quiet,
not rushed but patient,
the kind that stays
even when unspoken.
And if letters still existed,
I would not end this one
because some feelings
do not know how to stop
once they have found
the right person to reach.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 1:54 PM UTC
I was only a seed
when I landed beside you,
small and unsure,
still learning how to reach for light.
But you,
you were already a tree.
Roots deep with stories
you never spoke out loud,
with branches stretched wide
like you were holding up more than just sky.
You never said you were tired,
even when the wind leaned heavy on you.
You never showed the cracks
even when the storms stayed too long.
Instead,
you stood.
And somehow,
you made space for me to grow.
I watched you closely,
the way you bent but never broke,
the way your shade felt like safety,
like I could rest without asking.
You made strength look quiet,
made survival look soft.
Even in your own battles,
you chose to be shelter,
chose to be more
than what life tried to reduce you to.
And I learned,
not from words,
but from you.
Now when I reach upward,
when I stand a little taller,
when I believe in the kind of strength
that doesn’t need to shout,
it’s because I grew beside
an older tree
who carried storms in silence
and still chose to bloom.
You don’t call yourself a hero,
but I see it,
in every scar you never mention,
in every tear you hide in your leaves.
If I become anything in this life,
anything worth standing tall,
it will be because
I first learned how
by watching you.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 11:05 AM UTC
I told myself
I wouldn’t fall this time,
kept my heart folded
like a note I’d never send.
But then you happened,
quietly,
like a feeling that doesn’t ask permission.
Now I notice everything.
The way your eyes
hold conversations mine aren’t ready for,
like they already know
what I’m still trying to hide.
The way your hand exists
and suddenly mine feels empty
without ever having held it.
It’s not loud,
not the kind of want that burns the world down,
it’s softer than that.
It’s in the pauses,
in the way I reread your messages,
in the space your name takes up
in my thoughts.
I tried to stay untouched,
unmoved,
uninterested,
but here I am,
learning the shape of you
without even trying.
These aren’t wild desires,
not reckless, not rushed
just soft cravings,
the kind that grow quietly
and refuse to leave.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 8:27 AM UTC
it was brief,
too brief for something that would stay this long.
a greeting,
a moment dressed as something ordinary,
your name meeting mine
like it had been waiting somewhere before us,
but it was your hand,
your hand that changed the light
when our palms met
the world didn’t stop,
no, it softened…
like everything harsh suddenly remembered
how to be gentle,
and you,
you became clearer
as if my eyes had been closed
until that exact second
not just beautiful
no, that would be too easy a word
you were something warmer,
something that didn’t ask to be seen
yet demanded to be felt.
the way you stood,
half turned, half smiling,
like you knew something
the rest of the world hadn’t caught up to yet
and i’ve been thinking
how something so small
could leave something so permanent,
how a hand
could hold more than touch,
because now
every memory of you
begins there.
in that quiet spark
between skin and skin,
and i wonder
if you felt it too,
or if i’m the only one
still holding onto a moment
that never let go of me.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 4:53 AM UTC
No words,
because words are for people
who are trying to understand each other.
Here,
nothing asks to be understood.
Only closeness,
only the illusion of knowing
without ever truly seeing.
This is a language
spoken by hearts
that have never met,
a conversation
where nothing is exchanged
but presence.
It feels like fire,
like something urgent,
like something real,
but real things linger,
and this…
this fades the moment silence returns.
No memories are built here,
no meaning stays,
just a passing warmth
between two strangers
pretending not to be.
And when it’s over,
there’s nothing left to hold,
only the quiet truth
that this was never love,
just the echo of it
in an empty place.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 4:28 PM UTC
The city hums like it never learned to rest,
voices spilling through walls,
cars writing their names across the night,
and I sit here,
trying to forget I belong to it.
So I borrow other lives.
I read poems that feel like stolen breaths,
trace my fingers along sentences
that understand things I cannot say,
turn pages like doors
hoping one won’t close behind me.
In novels,
love arrives with purpose,
lingers with meaning,
stays long enough
to be remembered properly.
And I...
I pause between chapters,
wondering what it must feel like
to be written that way,
to be chosen,
to be kept.
But outside,
reality drips slow and colorless,
a quiet kind of empty
that doesn’t even bother to hurt,
just exists,
unchanged.
And I think,
what is the weight of living
if it never becomes beautiful?
What is a life
that no one would stop to read?
So I turn another page,
let someone else’s story hold me,
just for tonight,
just until sleep pretends
I am more
than this quiet evening.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 7:43 AM UTC
As a man, I wear purple
not for pride, but for power unspoken,
a shade that carries echoes of battles endured
and spirits that refused to break.
In its depth, I see them,
women of this land, rising still,
South African queens
carrying suns through storms.
Purple.
the color of bruises becoming bloom,
a quiet reminder
that pain can give birth to power.
I see it in the mother
who prays before dawn exhales,
in the sister
who stands unshaken before the edge of fear.
The Zulu woman, thunder across open plains,
the Xhosa queen, her laughter slicing through sorrow,
the Sotho lady, her kindness worn like gold,
the Tswana spirit, unyielding, unbroken, untold.
The Coloured woman, joy stitched into every line,
the Indian sister, grace that outlives time,
the Black woman, my backbone, my fire, my art,
the White woman, steady, with an open heart.
As a man, I see them all,
not fragile, but sacred,
their strength a rhythm
that lives within my spine.
So I wear purple
not for myself, but for them,
for every woman
who rises,
again and again.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 7:16 AM UTC