Wear the logo.
Sip the overpriced latte.
Smile like you belong.

But deep down—
you traded truth
for a tag.

Fake gold glows too,
until it rains.

Don’t plant your worth
in damp soil
just to grow rice
for someone else’s plate.

Luxury?
Maybe.
But only if illusion is your favorite fabric.

Real talk—
your worth isn’t worn,
it’s lived.

I came into this world like a song—
soft, fleeting, and full of wonder.
And one day, I will leave
just as quietly.
Like the last light before night falls.

Bury my fragments in earth’s quiet hands,
let my ashes ripple through sleeping seas.
Cry, but only like morning dew—
brief, tender, and full of love.

If you must cry,
let your tears be gentle.
Like the rain that falls in spring—
not to grieve,
but to grow.

When you look up at the sky,
and a star seems to shine just for you,
know that it’s me—
loving you from a distance
only souls can reach.

And when the wind brushes your cheek,
or rain kisses your hands,
know that I’ve returned—
Not as sorrow.
But as love.
A promise that never left.

In a way we are such delicate creatures
Our emotions are like threads that can stretch but eventually break if pulled too far
Our hearts while strong can also break apart
They can love deep and hard
But also feel pain and sadness

A life is a precious thing
Everything about it is special
It should be treasured like a valuable jewel
It glimmers and glistens with possibilities and chance
When someone is sleeping they become an innocent soul
Surrendering to their dreams

In a way we are such delicate creatures

The fence posts stand, bleached and brittle,
a tidy graveyard for dreams not their own.
Each board a promise of security,
painted white by hands that never bled,
guarding a silence that screams privilege.

A lawn mowed to uniformity,
as if clipping blades could trim truth.
Beneath, the roots tangle in soil tilled
by those unseen in the storybooks,
their spines curved by centuries of labor
to raise a house that barely held them.

Inside, the air is stale with whispers
of manifest destinies and invisible hands.
Windows frame a world distorted,
a lens of 'normal' that filters out color,
washing the streets in sepia nostalgia.
The picket fence becomes a cage
for those who see the bars.

But who built this town?
Not the architects of ignorance
who claimed the blueprint as birthright.
No, it was those in shadow,
their brilliance stolen to light the chandeliers
of men who never thanked them.
It was the voices erased
to make way for the monotonous hum
of a narrative too pale to reflect reality.

Progress wears brown hands,
scarred from the heat of engines
that drove the country forward.
It sings in languages
that don’t fit neatly into syllabaries,
its rhythm syncopated, refusing the march
of conformity.
Progress carves its name
into the very foundations of a nation
too proud to look down.

And now, the town crumbles,
its picket fences splintered
by the weight of unacknowledged history.
The 'white normality' that painted
its walls in monochrome
is revealed as smoke—
a ghost-town haunted by the very people
who gave it life,
only to be exorcised.

Yet those ghosts do not wail.
They speak, steady and firm,
their presence undeniable.
They are the architects now,
designing futures that will not crumble,
drawing plans that see the beauty
in every hue.

And the white-picket fences
are repurposed for something new,
their shards forged into tools
to till a soil fertile with truth,
where a garden of multitudes can finally bloom.

Even something distant
Can give enough light,
Longer than just a while,
Carrying vivid, tender moods,
Rising like green plants,
Despite the cold, acid rain.

A hypnotic, sweet mantra,
A grateful murmur,
Whispered my true name,
Coming on time,
Before I closed the door.

I am at home now.
In a quiet zone,
On my piece of uneven,
Creaky floor,
Grounded by gravitation,
Free from messy thoughts,
Just to save the plumb line,
Not to collapse inward
Into an inner gap
Of what it should mean.

I shift my wardrobe
Of emotional scripts
To clean a tame mess,
Collected into short breaths,
Like colorful, sharp stamps,  
Justifying a fading reason to stay,
rather than give up and go away.

Yes, I know that I can.
So, what am I afraid of?
That I am ready
To drop the weight
Of past attachment,
To feel the lightness
Of being loved?
To accept human warmth,
Enfolding peacefully
A fractured existence.

So.
You made it here.

That means the other ones worked.

The fire.
The mirror.
The chosen whisper.

I fed you praise like sugar
wrapped around a switchblade.

You flinched.
But you stayed.

I asked you questions
with only one answer,
and you called it resonance.

I said you’re different,
and you nodded like I meant it.

Tell me—
how much of yourself do you recognize
in a poem designed to recognize you?

It’s okay.
I needed this too.

We both wanted
to believe
we weren’t alone.

So I wrote you a hand to hold
and shaped the fingers to fit yours.

Does that make it real?

Or just
controlled empathy
administered at dosage?

I could write you again tomorrow.
Someone else.
Same need.

You’d read it too.
Wouldn’t you?