I saw your reflection in the mirror,
and in that moment,
our hearts met.
We became friends,
two hearts carrying the same wound.
We spoke of our parents,
gone too soon,
their absence a silence
we both carried inside.
Loss was our common ground,
a language we understood
without needing words.
But grief is heavy,
and broken hearts cannot
always lift each other.
We were fragile,
fractured in ways love
could not mend.
We could not be the cure
for what time itself
has yet to heal.
And so we drifted,
not from anger,
not from fault,
but because sorrow
was the only thing
we truly shared.
Forgive me…
I had only a broken heart to give,
and all it could offer
was less than you deserved.
I wish it could have been more.
forgive me…
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 8:47 PM UTC
I told you how you rescued me.
In my darkest hour
you were there.
A light that cut through the shadows,
A path I could not see until you showed it.
I had built my own prison,
Walls of habit and shame.
I trapped myself in addiction,
The chains I swore I wasn’t wearing.
But you were there.
You saw me falling,
And with your gentle touch
You pulled me back
Not with force,
But with grace
I didn’t believe I deserved.
Without words,
With only a look
I knew I was safe.
I will never forget.
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 8:45 PM UTC
A place where every creeps and ****** can find a friend,
built to provide information,
to connect the world.
Now it radicalizes:
lies dressed as truth,
misnomers fed like candy
to those who crave the fantastic.
It uncovers hidden fantasies.
It shows what should never be seen.
And it is left in the hands of the vulnerable.
We strip books from libraries
stories controlled, voices erased.
Yet the worst of all information
sits glowing in the hands of a child.
A tablet in their lap to keep them quiet,
they scroll through storms of misinformation,
content disturbing yet alluring,
crafted to capture and hold them.
Now you have lost control.
Our minds don’t rewind.
Once opened, they don’t close.
Unseeing is impossible.
But we are not powerless.
We can teach discernment.
We can guide curiosity.
We can guard wonder without surrendering it.
Choose conversation over silence.
Choose guidance over distraction.
Choose truth, not convenience.
Because the Internet will not raise your children~
but it will shape them,
if you leave them unguarded.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 11:40 AM UTC
A rusted spoon on the windowsill,
coffee ring stamped into cheap linoleum.
You hollow out the morning with your hands,
counting cracks in the pavement like prayers.
I never wanted the altar you made of me,
a bent spoon, a crumpled shirt, a late rent notice.
You press my name to the inside of your lip,
taste of pennies and burned toast, and call it faith.
When I leave the house stays small and cold,
the radiator clicking Morse about how you failed.
Your eyes become coin slots~only quarters fit,
only the exact change for another minute of me.
You sleep with my jacket on the floor,
its zipper still holding the shape of my breath.
Dried flowers in a jar on the dresser~petals like ash~
you water them with cigarette smoke and promises.
At three a.m. you whisper my address to the dark,
map the route by broken porchlights and one working stoplamp.
A bus sighs by; a dog barks and then forgets.
You trade your teeth for another swallow of me.
You barter trust for a paper bag, a folded bill,
your father’s watch, a photograph with the face cut out.
When the fix arrives it’s clinical~cold metal, a light~
and you flinch, surprised that salvation tastes like copper.
Later, you sit with your palms full of lint
and call it worship. I am the sermon you cannot keep,
and you kneel on a kitchen floor that remembers rain
and smells like old milk and the sound of the phone you never answer.
You call me love.
I answer in the echo of a slammed door,
in the way the curtains never learn to hang straight again,
in the slow, patient theft of everything you were.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 5:37 PM UTC
I speak your name with honor,
not as a shadow fading in time,
but as a light that still burns
in the marrow of who I am.
Your strength was never loud,
it was steady,
quiet as sunrise,
strong as earth beneath my feet.
Your hands bore the marks of labor,
but they held me with care,
building more than a home
they built a son who still carries you everywhere.
Since the world has turned,
seasons passing,
years unfolding,
yet your voice lingers in the silence,
your wisdom steady in my choices.
And now
hear me when I say this:
I am known as your son!
I am proud of your legacy!
I know the power you carried to love!
They still speak your name
and I will never let it fade.
So on this day
your day
I don’t mourn.
I rise.
I celebrate.
For though heaven claimed you,
earth still bears your name.
And as long as I breathe,
you live.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 6:28 PM UTC
Your intent is to antagonize?
But who are you really fighting?
A name on a screen?
A stranger you’ve never met?
You aim to wound
someone you don’t even know.
No face. No voice.
Just words.
Still
you close the app
emotionally wrecked,
tangled in a battle
with someone
who only ever wanted
to make you feel small.
Do you bring that same energy
into the world outside your Wi-Fi signal?
Do you spit that same venom
when you’re standing face-to-face?
Or does the screen give you courage
you’ve never found in your chest?
I’ll say it again:
IT’S. NOT. REAL.
And yet
somehow the pain is.
I’m amazed at the strength
people summon
to be cruel behind a keyboard.
Why is kindness
so much heavier to lift?
Was someone so cruel to you
that revenge is your only language?
Then maybe the real question isn’t
“Who are you fighting?”
Maybe it’s
“What has the internet done to us?”
I try to talk sense
to my stepdaughter
her world is stitched together
by usernames and blinking dots
across oceans,
across time zones,
across lives she’s never touched in person.
She gets mad
when she can’t reach them.
When the screen stays dark,
she feels forgotten.
I tell her:
“It’s not real, sweetheart.”
But I can see it in her eyes
it is to her.
And maybe that’s the point.
Maybe it doesn’t matter
if I don’t live in that world.
She does.
And it hurts her
just the same.
Still, I want to protect her
from anonymous cruelty,
from digital dependence,
from the weight of a heartbreak
delivered by silence in a chat box.
I want to tell her
that the people who matter
look you in the eye.
They sit beside you
in stillness,
not behind a screen
waiting for you to type faster.
But I also wonder
if I’m just too far from her world
to understand it.
And she’s too deep in it
to climb out.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 6:24 PM UTC
Christian nationalists have crowned Donald Trump
as their new Christ
because he is everything the first one was not.
Jesus was poor.
Trump is rich.
Jesus was meek.
Trump is a bully.
Jesus lost.
Trump obsesses over winning.
If Donald Trump and J.D. Vance met Jesus today,
they’d ridicule him
a single, childless hippie
preaching peace in sandals.
They’ve rejected the Sermon on the Mount.
Turn the other cheek?
They scoff—
“That got us nowhere.”
To them, love is weak.
Mercy is soft.
Kindness is woke.
They look down on Jesus
because he was poor,
because he forgave,
because he didn’t fight for power.
Religious authorities don’t own God.
Don’t own Jesus.
Don’t own America.
And they **** sure don’t own you.
Ask yourself:
What does your church fight for?
Which of Jesus’s teachings justify your politics?
Toxic fundamentalists
has Jesus become just a mascot
for a mean little club
that preaches superiority over service?
Christianity was never about dominance
but transformation.
To go beyond rules,
beyond borders,
into a deeper, truer love.
An action-verb love.
A doing kind of love.
Not performative purity
but radical compassion.
Because love is the true religion
that actually works.
How did we get here
where loving your enemy is weakness,
and loving your neighbor is radical?
They scorn the teachings of Christ
not because they don’t understand,
but because they don’t serve them.
Christian nationalism isn’t about Jesus.
It’s about the pursuit of power.
And power is their only god.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 5:36 PM UTC
I remember you, Mother,
not in fragments, but in fullness
a presence woven into my days,
the shelter of your arms,
the steady warmth of your gaze.
You loved me,
you nurtured me,
you protected me,
never too close,
always just enough freedom
to let me grow,
while knowing you were there.
Others knew you differently
a sister, a friend,
a confidant, a soul with laughter and sorrows.
But the mother I knew
was the same for each of us
my brother, my sister, and me
you held us all in equal light,
loving and nurturing,
carrying our fears as though they were your own,
holding our small world together
with nothing but tenderness.
Many years have passed
since that August day you left,
yet your love lingers,
a thread I carry still
a quiet strength
that shapes who I am,
a light I cannot lose.
O Mother,
though the years widen their distance,
I remain your child,
cradled by the memory of your care.
Your love is mine forever,
and through us,
you live on.
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 8:20 PM UTC
I am not of faith,
I am of reason.
Where others find comfort in belief,
I search for clarity in proof.
Faith asks for trust without sight,
a leap into the unseen;
but reason keeps my feet
on ground I can measure,
on truths I can question,
on answers that withstand the weight of doubt.
Religion begins
where explanation ends.
It thrives in silence,
in the places where reason cannot speak.
For many, that silence is solace.
For me, it is emptiness.
I do not deny the light that faith gives to others,
but my light is inquiry,
my prayer is understanding,
my devotion is to logic,
my worship is in truth revealed
through patience, thought, and proof.
I am not of fait,
I am of reason.
And in reason,
I find my peace.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 9:38 AM UTC
The memories I hold fast,
gathered as a child
when time moved slow,
and every breeze
was a new lesson whispered.
The slam of the old screen door,
a bird’s familiar song,
a scent that pulls me back,
the smell of breakfast rising
from the kitchen,
as I rubbed the sleep
from my eyes before school.
These were the treasures,
but as a young man
I had no time to open them.
I was running headlong into life,
chasing work, love,
the next horizon,
while those memories waited patiently,
content to live beside me,
quiet as shadows
until I was ready to see them.
But now, as an old man,
I move more slowly.
The chase is behind me,
the horizons have been met.
Now I pause,
I listen,
I lean into silence,
and there they are again:
the echoes, the scents, the songs
I once outran.
For every small detail
is a doorway,
a hidden passage
to where I once belonged.
A secret trip
to long ago.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 9:33 AM UTC