I quite like the winter times,
For they are filled with holidays and snowmen.
I feel kind of sad, sometimes, when we get to this time of year.
People tell me that it’s okay to cry,
That sadness at the loss of a parent is natural.
But I can’t cry.
He wouldn’t have cried if I were in his place,
So why should I?
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 12:55 AM UTC
I watch them all run around,
While they have fun without me
On this hot Summer day.
I’m not sure why I choose to sit here, in the shade.
I’m not sure why I even came at all.
I wish that I could find as much joy as them
In the sports that they play,
In the activities they do,
But I simply cannot.
There is nobody to blame but myself,
For they are not excluding me in the slightest.
They beg me to participate, but I decline.
I decline, so that I can sit here, alone, in the shade.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 12:48 AM UTC
I am the unfortunate son.
The son that parents don’t brag about at parties,
While his siblings are practically worshipped.
The son that has to cook his own meals,
While his siblings get fed.
The son that works for everything he has,
While his siblings are coddled.
I tell people that I am glad that I am the unfortunate son,
That I learned to be determined, hard-working, and independent.
But sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes,
I wish that I was that son.
The son whose parents bragged about him.
The son who got fed meals by his parents.
The son who was coddled and told “I love you”.
But instead, I am the unfortunate son.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 12:13 AM UTC
I stare blankly at the brick wall before me.
I can’t wait here forever. I must go past.
But I don’t know. I don’t know what is beyond the wall.
Maybe it is a beautiful field,
With birds eloquently singing from treetops.
Or maybe it is a barren landscape, filled with dread.
But I don’t know, and I am too scared to find out.
All it would take is one step–one small stride,
And I could remove all doubt.
But I’d rather sit here than take that chance.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 12:11 AM UTC
I was born to die.
The entirety of my life, since the moment I was bred,
Has been with the eventual intent of death.
I am doomed to become a slice of meat on someone’s plate,
Forced to become a wool blanket that a little boy lies beneath.
My life has no meaning but to become a superficial object.
I might as well attempt to escape these wooden boundaries of my pen,
For even a death by the wolves is far more noble than a death by man.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 7:56 PM UTC
A half-eaten Chinese takeout box.
An empty soda can. A raggedy children’s toy, now worn.
Suddenly, a glimmer catches my eye
As I scan through the pile of garbage.
There sits a golden necklace.
“To Brooklynn, my one true love” it says, engraved.
But it, too, is now worn. Mud speckles cover its golden beauty.
And so it sits there,
Forgotten and alone.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 7:55 PM UTC
It was our cabinet.
Not his nor hers, it was ours.
The chip in it when my mom wasn’t paying attention.
The paint stains when we changed the wall color.
The originally black, though now bronze handle, worn from our many touches.
These things made our cabinet “imperfect”,
But it wasn’t any less ours.
And now, it isn’t. It is no longer our cabinet.
A new mother will accidentally chip it.
A new color will adorn the walls.
A new handle will replace the old.
Our cabinet will belong to someone else.
And the new cabinet will technically be ours,
But it will never truly be ours.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 7:50 PM UTC