Your voice arrived like the hush before blue,
A quiet horizon I suddenly knew.
You moved through my hours in silver and foam,
And every small moment began to feel home.
I was the shoreline, patient and wide,
Learning the rhythm of pull and of tide.
You traced soft promises over my days,
Writing warm futures in luminous haze.
But love is a water that never stands still,
It gathers its courage, then breaks its own will.
You reached like a morning that swore it would stay,
Then carried your sunlight back to the gray.
I kept every echo you left in the land,
Your laughter lay shining like shells in the sand,
yet each gentle memory thinned with the sea.
The waves gave you to me,
then took you from me.
Now evening returns with its patient refrain,
The surf says your name, then erases it again.
And I finally understand what the shoreline has known:
Love comes like the ocean,
but never as home.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 5:26 PM UTC
I walked for hours without a sign,
no trail to follow, no marked line.
Just roots that caught my boots each stride,
and trees pressed close on every side.
I called for help; the woods replied,
but smaller than the words I cried.
The air was cold, the ground was hard,
each step ahead felt twice as far.
My legs were weak, my throat was dry,
the light above a narrow sky.
I kept on moving, stiff and slow,
afraid to stop, afraid to go.
Then in a clearing bare and still
I saw it standing by the hill,
a tall, clean mirror set upright,
its silver face in open sight.
No house nearby, no road, no track,
no reason it should wander back.
Just polished glass in dirt and leaves,
untouched by wind or broken trees.
I stepped up close and looked inside,
expecting some poor fool to hide,
but what I saw held me in place,
a cruel and hardened, crooked face.
My eyes were narrow, dull, and cold,
my mouth looked sharp, my anger old.
The lines were deep along my skin,
as if the hate had settled in.
I tried a smile; it came out wrong,
too tight, too thin, it stayed too long.
I knew that look, I knew it well,
the face a better man once fell.
I whispered, “No,” but still it stayed,
a truth no shadow ever made.
Each word I’d used to wound or blame
was written there beside my name.
My stomach knotted, breath turned fast,
as if I stared into my past.
I reached down to the dirt and grass
and gripped a heavy stone at last.
The figure watched me lift my hand;
it did not beg or understand.
I hurled the rock with all I had.
The crack rang sharp, the sound was bad.
The mirror burst in jagged lines,
a spiderweb of breaking signs.
Then shards fell loose around my feet,
small broken versions incomplete.
Each piece still held my face in part,
cut into fragments sharp as art.
A dozen eyes, a dozen sneers,
a dozen masks of wasted years.
Then sudden light struck through the frame,
warm, bright, and steady as a flame.
I stepped away and turned to see
what lay beyond where glass should be.
No forest waited, dark and tight,
but open land in full daylight.
A valley wide with moving stream,
clear water running slow and clean.
Green fields rolled soft beyond the hill,
no choking trees, no air so still.
The wind moved free, the sky was wide,
and silence there felt less like pride.
I looked back once at shards below,
each one still held the man I know.
I kicked them from the dirt and grass
and walked straight through the empty glass.
The woods stayed dark and far behind;
the face remained there, trapped in time.
Ahead was space and open air,
and I was no longer standing there.
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 1:49 PM UTC
It started as a coal inside my chest,
a whisper saying I was owed it all.
I fed it hurt and called the burning rest.
Each slight replayed would never let me rest,
I built my throne against an unseen wall;
it started as a coal inside my chest.
I kept each word that failed some private test,
forgiveness paced but never could recall.
I fed it hurt and called the burning rest.
The nights grew long; sleep would not be my guest,
my voice turned iron every time I’d call;
it started as a coal inside my chest.
I pushed away the hands that knew me best,
their faces fading in a narrowing hall;
I fed it hurt and called the burning rest.
At last I stood an empty, cooling crest,
no soul remained to answer when I’d fall.
It started as a coal inside my chest,
I fed it hurt and called the burning rest.
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 1:35 PM UTC
The house still leans where ivy climbs
and moss has claimed the window’s eye,
its breath a fog that does not lie,
forgetting all but softer times.
The floorboards speak in gentle cracks,
of barefoot ghosts in morning light,
a quiet child, a paper kite,
and laughter echoing through cracks.
The garden bends to weeds and rain,
but roses bloom where none remain,
a stubborn kind of joy, not pain,
just proof that beauty does not feign.
And though we pass, we do not fall:
we stitch ourselves into the wall,
in chipped paint, names that time recalls,
still listening, beyond it all.
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC
A violet bell in silence tolls,
It rings within forgotten folds,
Where time drips slow from phantom bowls,
And memory hides in marbled holes.
Through amber mist, the shadows grow,
They dance on roots of emerald flame,
A river hums of long ago,
Yet none who drink leave quite the same.
In every wind, a whisper bends,
A name unsaid, a thread undone,
The orchard dreams where meaning ends,
And moons collapse into the sun.
The bell still tolls where no one goes,
Its song for stars that none suppose,
Each echo blooms like haunted rose,
And wilts in hush the silence chose.
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 12:31 AM UTC
You sit beside me
like a flame behind glass,
close enough to warm,
too hot to touch.
There is softness in you,
but I’ve learned
it’s not mine to hold.
It lives in the quiet between gestures,
a half-turned head,
a question swallowed
before it breaks the surface.
I memorize the way you sleep,
not because I’m afraid you’ll leave,
but because I know you already do,
in moments,
in silences,
in the way your body curls away
when you dream.
You love me
the way the moon loves the sea:
constant,
but pulling.
And I pretend not to feel the tide
dragging pieces of me out
just to reach you.
Sometimes I think
if I could just hold your name
long enough
in my mouth,
you’d remember what it felt like
to be held.
But I don’t say that.
I just sit beside you,
smiling soft,
while all this beauty aches inside me
with nowhere to go.
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 11:38 PM UTC
Listen up,
You’ve been dancing in circles,
thinking you can outrun your own shadow.
But the sun always moves.
And shadows?
They follow.
You patch the cracks,
stack lies on lies like brittle bones,
but every cover you throw
just sinks you deeper.
You wear your little masks,
build fake versions of yourself,
hoping if you play enough parts,
nobody’ll see what’s rotting underneath.
But we see.
Everyone sees.
That theater doesn't scare anyone,
and it sure as hell doesn't scare justice.
Truth won't lose patience.
It doesn't blink.
It waits.
You write your pretty verses,
spit out poems like they’re some kind of shield,
like art can outrun consequence.
Your words are feathers in a hurricane.
They won’t cover the hurt,
They won’t erase the stain.
And don’t forget —
it’s never the sin that buries a man.
It’s the weight of hiding it.
Jun 3, 2025
Jun 3, 2025 at 11:46 PM UTC
It begins with a whisper,
not of air,
but of policy,
spinning.
The wall is old.
Painted over promises,
layered thick with
“later,”
“not yet,”
“it’s complicated.”
The drill hums, a mandate,
a motion passed in tired rooms,
a push into what resists
and always has.
Plaster flakes like paper ballots.
Behind it:
wires crossed,
beams bowed from holding too much weight
for too long.
This isn’t demolition.
It’s inquiry.
An attempt to find
what’s been hidden in drywall sermons
and insulation thick with slogans.
The silence after isn’t peace,
it’s waiting.
A breath before someone asks:
Who gave permission to open this up?
And someone else answers:
No one.
We just did.
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 2:10 PM UTC
A whisper pressed between two clockless thoughts,
I sent it sailing on the hush between atoms.
Did it find you? That feathered flicker
curled in the corner of a dream I wish to finish?
I stitched “hello” in the folds of a vanishing cloud,
where syllables drip like melted compass needles.
Are your shadows behaving?
Have your echoes found a place to hum?
Just blink twice if the rain still tastes familiar.
I’ll know.
I always read the tremble in the leaves.
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 9:36 PM UTC
I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep could touch,
I mean marrow-tired. Soul-sick.
Like I’ve been screaming at walls
that were never meant to hear me,
only hold me in and mock me.
I watch the country gnaw itself to bone
while paper kings in thousand-dollar ties
sell truth by the gram
and war by the barrel.
There are flags on coffins,
hashtags on grief,
and filters on faces too scared
to show the cracks beneath.
The people have turned to teams,
red hats, blue waves,
fists clenched around identity
like it’s a weapon to survive the day.
But no one’s listening.
Just shouting louder in echo chambers
built by men who learned to profit from silence.
I’m tired of scrolling through manufactured lives,
where every grin is an ad,
every tear a performance,
every post a prayer to algorithms
that demand our attention,
then sell it to the highest bidder.
Tired of the news
that isn’t news,
just fear in fancy font,
a script rehearsed
by actors paid in outrage and ratings.
And beneath it all,
the quiet wars we wage alone:
Anxiety like barbed wire under the skin,
Depression curled in the corners of every room.
We medicate, meditate,
disassociate,
and wonder why we still feel hollow.
I don’t want unity like they market it,
some glitter-wrapped lie
where everyone smiles the same.
I want the kind of truth that scorches.
The kind that peels back illusion
like rot from fruit,
reveals the maggots we fed without knowing.
I want to scream until the stars hear me.
I want to tear down the golden idols
we carved from greed and call it legacy.
I want to see the empire fall,
not in flames,
but in awakening.
Because this country,
my country,
was not born from comfort.
It was carved by the calloused hands of rebels
who dared to dream louder
than the fear that held them.
So maybe I’m not just tired.
Maybe I’m done.
And maybe that’s where the fire starts.
Not with banners,
not with bombs,
but with one soul saying,
No more.
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 11:15 AM UTC