He hung above us
like a clock with broken hands.
Far from home, time turned backward,
mornings swallowed into dark cerulean hues
his voice arriving after itself
through static telephone wires.
We inherited the house,
the food,
the future.
But never the hands
that built them.
6d ago
May 29, 2026 at 1:39 AM UTC
What was poured early, spills.
Even if you dispose of the wholeness of it
in the vastness of the ocean and leave,
even if you hate it,
it returns
like my inherited mindset.
From the fiery battlefield
where I used to survive,
from the dusty corners
shouting glitter-coated reputation and blood-bound unity, where I hid my swelling, sparkly eyes.
So I tied my pale sky-blue shoelaces and ran with all my strength
I tucked my bruises in my bones
and wished I could fly.
But to my surprise,
what was poured early still spills.
It is a portrait with a face,
held together
by what it cannot keep
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 5:14 AM UTC
Beneath the calm green, a quiet blaze waits,
coiled in muscle, in bone, in pulse.
In the spaces between swings,
between breaths,
a luminous blue flame burns.
It knows no ordinary victory,
only its own insistence.
Jan 13
Jan 13, 2026 at 11:38 PM UTC
A wild, brute soul,
clothed in rose-colored grit.
My lola, smoking
on the porch like a queen
of ashes and side-eyes,
laughing at thunder.
Her voice,
blazing like old radio static,
sharp as ***** before noon,
and soft as the hum
of lullabies forgotten.
She danced through gossip
like a match to dry grass.
She cussed in three languages,
prayed in whispers
no one was meant to hear.
She loved with fists,
held grudges like sacred songs,
wore her past
like war paint.
So now, I spark flames
like smuggled cigarettes,
pretending
the smoke is still hers
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
He taught me form before feeling —
wrists locked,
chin down,
no follow-through too wild.
Spoke in parables of greens and grit,
gripped the world like a 9-iron:
firm, exact,
white-knuckled love.
I bent to angles he approved,
measured wind,
not wonder —
and called it becoming.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 4:08 AM UTC
We never planned it—
we just came back.
Same beach, same breath of sea,
three kids chasing the wind
like it was made for them.
You with your wine,
me with a beer,
watching the sky throw joy
like confetti—
bright, weightless,
impossible to hold.
The sand didn’t keep us,
but it knew our names.
And when the noise of life
pulls them somewhere we can’t follow—
we’ll return to this shore,
where nothing was perfect,
but everything was real.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 11:52 AM UTC
As pain crawls in my nerves,
it moves like liquid colors on my skin.
Pain is bright, pretty, and invited—
for I know for sure
it’ll tiptoe once it sees my spilling courage,
overflowing with bolder defiant colors,
popping and bursting with sparks and confetti.
It won’t know what to do
with all this noise I carry—
not grief, but something louder.
The kind of ache that dances,
that grinds its teeth into rhythm,
that turns every shiver into a beat.
My body, a festival of survival.
My nerves, electric with memory and fight.
Pain can watch—
but it won’t settle.
Not here.
Not where hope throws paint like wildfire
and every scar glows fluorescent
in the dark.
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC
Underneath our ceilings,
We’re too busy to feel feelings
Crafting fires, sculpting waters
Assembling ways, breeding colors
Underneath our bloodlines
We’re the soldiers assigned to the war—
Juggling weapons, battling grief
Saving lives of our fellowmen
Underneath the hands of a clock
We’re the fastest in the race
But we’re the last to finish
Yet, we believe we're champions
With bursts of color, like party confetti
For we feel it
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025 at 10:13 AM UTC
A man, with cacti in his hands,
Sharp and silent, he dares to stand.
Adoring thorns, he's unafraid
He lifts the spikes with all their weight.
A lesson etched in each scar's trace,
Each ***** a shadow, each wound a grace.
To persist is not to flee—
It’s to endure the thorns, and still be free.
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 10:19 PM UTC
They said:
Gather wood,
Strike the spark,
Craft the fire you seek.
But now,
With flames in my hands,
I long for the one I lost —
The playful glow
That needed nothing
But wonder to burn.
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 8:14 AM UTC