Love calls the heart to trust and grow,
Love is fresh, it’s always new.
Let go, be free, embrace the unknown,
For love is felt when hearts are shown.
And love will bloom eternally.

You call them forth with gentle lies,
But I am truth behind their cries.
You urge them on to leap and trust,
While I remind them—dreams turn dust.
And I will guard them, eternally.

While you tempt with promises so fleet,
Love guides them to truths, slow and sure.
Love, not illusion, makes hearts complete,
And blooms eternal, deep and pure.

You paint with light, with colors bright,
But I am shadow veiled in night.
You sing of joy, of hearts unchained,
Yet I recall what loss has stained.
And I will linger, eternally.

Love may rise where doubt still lingers,
Soft as whispers, light as fingers.
Through night and shadow, hearts will fight,
For every loss still births new light.
And love will stand—unyielding, eternal.

I saw you not, yet knew you in the air—
A hush between the turning of the day,
As if the light, grown tired of bright display,
Withdrew to shape your shadow from its flare.

The stars stood still, as if they too would stare,
And time, disarmed, let silence have its say.
The world grew soft; all sharpness slipped away—
I found your soul in everything, and there.

No rose more patient bloomed, no wind more kind,
Than what I felt in thoughts I could not speak.
You taught the stubborn earth how to be meek,
And showed the blind the language of the blind.

Love, unnamed, unseen, and yet so whole—
You were the fire that finished making soul.

Love moves like wind that stirs the silent trees,
It bends the bough but never breaks the stone.
It whispers truths in rustling melodies.

It pours like rain that falls on trembling seas,
Then leaves as sudden, and we stand alone—
Love moves like wind that stirs the silent trees.

It burns like sun through winter’s brittle freeze,
Then hides in clouds where shadows chill the bone.
It whispers truths in rustling melodies.

It grows like moss in darkened symmetries,
A quiet bloom where none had ever shone—
Love moves like wind that stirs the silent trees.

It carves through time like roots in centuries,
Reclaiming all we thought was carved in stone.
It whispers truths in rustling melodies.

So heed the hush of nature’s mysteries:
The heart is earth, the soul is overgrown.
Love moves like wind that stirs the silent trees—
It whispers truths in rustling melodies.

We all deserve a love that softly stays,
A steady light that warms the nights alone.
Two hearts that find each other through the haze,
A place where even silence feels like home.

A steady light that warms the nights alone,
Familiar eyes that know us, soul and skin.
A place where even silence feels like home,
Where every ending lets a new begin.

Familiar eyes that know us, soul and skin—
Not perfect, but a love that chooses still,
Where every ending lets a new begin,
And time moves slow to match a softened will.

Not perfect, but a love that chooses still,
Two hearts that find each other through the haze,
And time moves slow to match a softened will—
We all deserve a love that softly stays.

My nest—a tomb of filth and bile,
Left to rot in wait,
Until the festering completes,
And slime corrupts my state.

When looking up from far beneath,
They never feel the doom.
I hide it under golden ropes,
Accented with perfume.

The smell alone is not enough
To lure them inside;
That’s when I lower diamonds down
To try and turn the tide.

Once they latch, I slowly pull,
Entrancing them with song.
They always take a while to learn
That something’s deeply wrong.

I dance and whisper hollow dreams
To keep them entertained,
But spells are brief, and in the end,
They all must be restrained.

I weave my blackened cord around
Their bleeding, beating hearts.
Contentment fills their minds,
As sorrow aches within their parts.

That’s when I make my move,
Striking them with mud and puke.
Forever here my victims stay,
Within my endless fluke.

Like Rilke, Plath, and Angelou,
Who carved their pain in something true—
Like Ginsberg’s howl, like Frost’s still road,
Like Keats who sang though death forebode—

I want to stand among those names,
Not draped in wealth, not lit in flames,
But whispered low in quiet rooms
Where hearts still bloom and silence looms.

Let Dickinson’s hush guide my tone,
And Neruda's fire fuel my own.
Let Audre’s rage and Hughes’ grace
Be echoes laced in what I face.

No gilded frame, no grand parade—
Just poems that don't slip or fade.
A line that someone can’t erase,
A verse that finds its proper place.

Not viral clicks or printed fame—
But lovers mouthing out my name
Beside a lamp, a sleepless bed,
A single line still in their head.

Like Lowell’s ache, like Bishop’s gaze,
Like Whitman’s vast, embracing phrase—
I want to write the kind of truth
That outlives time and shatters youth.

So mark me not with gold or stone,
But let my stanzas walk alone—
Alive in those who chance to see
The soul I left in poetry.

To play for so long
the world was wide and new,
with shoelace swords and capes from sheets,
and skies that shifted blue.

To play with pockets full of stones,
and dreams that didn’t end,
where every stick could be a sword,
and every foe a friend.

To play for so long
that bedtime felt unfair,
but whispered tales beneath the sheets
made magic fill the air.

I miss the dirt beneath my nails,
the suns that never set—
the years ran off without a sound,
and I’m not done just yet.