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Jason 1d
You should have a genuine conversation with someone about your emotions, rather than engaging in one-sided conversations where you constantly express your emotional pain.

and say what?

what do we say?
what do I say?

seriously the questions sometimes never end
Jason Jun 5
That's the purpose of poetry it's reflection.

And Reflection is messy! Spending days and nights looking at the imperfections and why they are there.

It's filled to the brim with grief, rage, shame, honor and hope.

And this reflection, is so painful. Showing up Daily for my inner beat down.

Knowing your creed and values won't yield even when it comes to people that you love!

Waking up not thinking but knowing your values will drive people away.

Being filled with rage at the doors that have been closed for years!

**** it! I wanted to fight! I wanted to show that I was capable, yet I was denied! For me that was such a shameful thing to be denied the one thing you could do and do very well.

Praying that one day I'll be able to relfect what others see.

But until then I'll keep reflecting. Asking the hard questions, am I pushing myself hard enough?

What more can I do?
Jason May 26
A semester ended

So did a relationship

But hey the bright side

What bright side...

**** stop whining the semesters over. We passed! We made it through.

All that's left is clean-up here an there and rebuild our strength we'll enjoy that alot more then other people.

We're not doing this to get revenge or prove to anyone anything, we're doing this because we want to.

I dont know what the future holds but for better or worse we'll work it out.
Jason May 22
I feel heavy.
Not tired — heavy.
Like my chest is holding something I can’t name,
and my silence is louder than anything around me.

I carry heartbreak like it's folded into the fabric of my being.
I carry memories that don’t speak, but press.
I carry questions I can’t answer yet —
what’s next, who I’ll become, if I’ll ever feel seen again.

They say I’m quiet.
Reserved.
But they don’t hear the storms that live under my stillness.

I don’t speak unless it matters,
because life has taught me not every word deserves to live.
Not every space is safe for honesty.
Not every ear will hold my truth without judgment.

But I hold it — every day.
And it gets heavy.

I wish I could cry — fully, not just a tear or two.
But crying feels like surrender, and I’ve been strong for so long
that I forgot what surrender feels like.

Still…
I feel something rising in me.
Not ego. Not pride.
Just… truth.

The truth that I’ve been through too much
to pretend I’m like the rest.
The truth that silence doesn’t mean weakness —
it means I’ve listened to the world and chosen to answer slowly.

And the truth that
even in this heaviness,
I am still here.

Still breathing.
Still standing.
Still healing.

Even if no one sees it — I know it.
  Apr 28 Jason
J.R.R. Tolkien
The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head



The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall.

Of mighty kings of Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away;

The world was fair in Durin's Day.



A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.



There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote,

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built,

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.



Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang

And at the gates the trumpets rang.



The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
  Apr 28 Jason
J.R.R. Tolkien
The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet,

And whither then? I cannot say.
Jason Apr 27
I'm not a stranger to silence
After all I was raised to be silent and elusive
Something you'd see once then dismiss as a hallucination or dejavu.

But to you I gained permanence, now that permanence is fading, it feels so freeing to go back to the silence. Soon I'll be just as elusive as I once was.

But this time, this time things are different I'm working on a new set of skills so should we ever meet again you won't recognize me.
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