I remember the graves, the hush of the rain
Soft as a whisper, sharp as our pain
We wandered through rows where the cold marbles slept
And sorrow, like ivy, around us had crept

You walked beside me, apart yet the same
Two leaves on a stem no storm could reclaim
We spoke with our silence; the sky read our script
Gray as the truth that we both tightly gripped

I’d loved you for years but silence I wore
A coward’s confession behind a closed door
That hush was my thunder, my shadowed regret
For I saw in your stillness what you never said

Your burden was deeper, your youth left behind
To cradle your brothers, to steady their minds
Your father a ghost with a bottle for breath
And you, the lone lantern fending off death

We sat by the well, cracked stone and decay
A ruin forgotten by sunlight or day
And somehow, your hand found mine in the dusk
As soft as a prayer, as quiet as trust

We looked at each other, no questions, no schemes
Just truth in a moment that softened the seams
You smiled, I smiled, and time lost its thread
Then we kissed where the living still speak to the dead
And nothing existed beyond what we knew
That sorrow had brought me forever to you

We sat in the rain as the silence returned
But softer now, like the ache had been learned
No words were exchanged, yet something had grown
We felt a bit lighter, a little less alone

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.

Tired is the hush that falls on the bones,
a slow collapse behind the eyes—
like dusk unrolling through the halls
of thought, where once bright echoes rise.

Tired in the mind is static hum,
pages blurred and drifting slow,
words that once leapt sharp and sure
now stumble, slurred, and cease to flow.

Tired in the flesh is heavy steps,
shoulders pulled by unseen hands,
the climb of stairs a mountain now,
the bed a far and foreign land.

Tired in the heart is quiet sighs,
smiles held up like broken glass,
the weight of joy too much to lift,
the days too wide, the nights too vast.

Each kind of tired speaks its own,
in ache, in fog, in silence deep—
a different shape of letting go,
a different way of falling sleep.

I peel my skin to find the verse—
each line a nerve, each word a curse.
My fingers crack, the ink runs red—
I bind the poem, stitch the dead.

The page is meat. I carve it clean.
The stanzas pulse. The gaps still scream.
I press my voice through shattered teeth,
then choke it back in paper sheaths.

The world wants sugar, quick and bland—
a feeding trough, not sleight of hand.
It gorges on what’s soft and safe,
then spits me out, still torn and chafed.

They scroll past entrails shaped like truth,
preferring memes to bleeding youth.
I gut myself for depth and grace,
but all they see’s a blank, bruised face.

I nailed my heart to every page—
they laughed and said, “You’re just a phase.”
The words rot slow beneath the glass,
while bots applaud what cannot last.

They drained the soul from every shelf,
left only echoes of the self.
And still I write, while maggots hum
inside the mouth my lines come from.

I cough up metaphors and bile,
They call it “grim” and click “unstyle.”
Yet here I stand, spine sharp with spite,
my hands flayed raw, refusing flight.

This isn’t art that begs to please—
I write in wounds, not symphonies.
Let trend and comfort feed the swine,
my blood is real. These guts are mine.

The cot lies flat beneath my spine,
the air is dry, the color pale.
A red pipe runs a crooked line—
it hisses softly without fail.

My skull is tight, a failing drum.
A piston coughs, not quite in tune.
The light above begins to hum—
the ceiling bows like stretched-out dune.

The walls breathe slow beneath their grime.
My teeth are ticking in my head.
A drip repeats what someone said—
in words that almost taste like time.

A shadow climbs the angled steel.
The pipe above begins to shake.
Its breath is hot enough to feel—
or maybe that’s my own mistake.

I try to count my breaths aloud.
The numbers don’t return to me.
There’s humming in my inner ear—
a song I can’t unsee.

The cot is gone. I float in chrome.
My thoughts are welded to the wall.
A whisper speaks without a mouth.
I’m weightless in the sprawl.

My love for you is vast and wild,
A roaring star in endless deep.
Through cosmic tides, so free, beguiled,
Your gravity—my soul to keep.

A roaring star in endless deep,
You burn within my boundless sky.
Your gravity—my soul to keep,
No force can break, no time deny.

You burn within my boundless sky,
A nebula of light untamed.
No force can break, no time deny,
Nor name the fire that we have claimed.

A nebula of light untamed,
Through cosmic tides, so free, beguiled.
Nor name the fire that we have claimed,
My love for you is vast and wild.

When half the world turns cold and fades to grey,
The flowers weep, their colors torn apart,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

The skies once blazed with gold at break of day,
Now hollow specters whisper in the dark—
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey.

The rivers, once alive in bright array,
Flow silent now, as if they’ve lost their heart,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

The echoes of a sun too weak to stay
Stretch long across the fields that fall apart—
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey.

No songbird dares to lift a tune in play,
Their voices muted, broken from the start,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

Yet still, I hope the hues will find their way,
That color will return where shadows start,
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

The stars stretch wide, a silver-painted grave,
A man alone, adrift without a name.
His breath grows thin; the warning lights burn red,
The suit he wears a coffin wrapped in glass.
The tether snapped, the ship a fading spark,
And all he has are echoes of the past.

He drifts through void, remembering the past,
The choices made, the risks, the lives he gave.
The dying ship still flickers as a spark,
A beacon lost, too distant now to name.
He wonders if they see him through the glass,
A silhouette in flashing hues of red.

His visor blurs in fading streaks of red,
A silent film that plays upon the past.
His wife once traced her fingers on this glass,
A smile soft, before the call was grave.
They said his name—his name—he had a name,
But now it dims like embers in the spark.

His oxygen is fading, like the spark
Of engines gasping warnings lit in red.
He calls out once, a whisper of his name,
But silence only answers from the past.
The stars are cold, indifferent in their grave,
Reflected in the curvature of glass.

He lifts a trembling hand against the glass,
The frost like veins of fire losing spark.
The universe is wide, but still a grave,
A place where death does not arrive in red
But drifts along the corridors of past,
Unraveling the meaning of a name.

And what remains of him without a name?
A flicker pressed to light-years thick in glass,
A memory dissolving into past,
A signal lost, a beacon without spark.
The Earth will never know his warning, red—
His final breath dissolves into the grave.

No name, no spark, just frozen hands on glass.
The stars burn red; the past has sealed its grave.

You are the gleam that rides the midnight tide,
A molten thread through twilight’s woven seam.
Like fire opals set in dark abide,
You glow between what’s real and what’s a dream.

Your voice unbinds the air with gilded grace,
A lilt that bends the weight of time askew.
Within your light, the dullest forms embrace,
Their edges bathed in sudden, vivid hue.

Should you depart, the world would break apart,
Its colors drained, its echoes lost in black.
The sky would hold no sun within its heart,
Nor would the stars find strength to glimmer back.

Yet if the dark should steal your light away,
Your fire would burn within my soul to stay.

This, a rarity.
A stolen seashell
From the treasury of chaos,
My solitude.

Fortune favors the bold.
I'll continue to hide
With my stolen treasure,
Until chaos comes to claim.

The air is heavy with undone fate,
the sky, a wound that will not bleed.
Time stirs but does not break,
a serpent coiled, forever waiting to strike.

The stars lean close, breathless,
whispering of ruin too long withheld.
The earth quivers on the cusp,
but still, the fall does not come.

Let it end.
Let the sea unmake its name,
the fire carve its final hymn,
the wind unspool the last thread of dusk.

I have stood too long in the hush of collapse,
watching shadows stretch,
watching the world poised to fall—
but never falling.

Let the silence shatter,
let the weight be lifted.
I am weary of waiting.

I would you’d make me salt,
cast my name to the tide,
let the wind bear my ruin
to lands unremembered.

Twice, I split the sky,
unbarred doors best left veiled,
breathed storms where thy light
once lay unshaken.

Yet thou stand’st—
unmoved, unbroken,
a sky unyielding,
a river that takes all,
yet rages not.

Wouldst thou burn,
I should be smoke.
Wouldst thou drown me,
I should be rain.

But thou lov’st still,
and therein lies my undoing.

The meek nestles into the dark,
where power hums like a distant storm,
where strength, sharp-edged and waiting,
does not strike, does not break.

It does not cower.
It does not beg.

Fragility leans into force,
where dominion is not destruction
but a burden, a silence, a choice.

The strong does not devour.
The strong does not yield.

Between them, an understanding—
not spoken, not sworn,
but written in breath,
in the weight of stillness,
in the knowledge that power alone
withers without something to shelter,
and meekness alone
shatters without something to bear it.

The world does not see the balance,
but they do,
and so, for now,
they remain—unchallenged,
unbroken.

I heard them—
low voices curling through the dark,
soft as breath, sharp as broken glass.
I wasn’t supposed to hear.
But I did.

My name—
slipped from their mouths like a secret too heavy,
like a blade drawn slow.
And suddenly,
the walls felt too close,
the air too thick,
the space between us, a battlefield.

I knew what this was.
I’d seen the signs.
The hush when I entered,
the careful glances,
the way the night swallowed their words whole.

I knew—
I knew.

So I lunged.
Didn’t hesitate, didn’t breathe,
just cut.
Words like wildfire,
rage like a flood,
my voice a wrecking ball crashing through their quiet.

And then—
stillness.

No fight.
No denial.
Just eyes wide, hands empty,
hearts bleeding from wounds they never saw coming.

A gift, they said.
A surprise, they said.
A moment of joy,
crushed beneath the weight of my fear.

And suddenly, I am the villain.
The shadow in the room.
The storm where there should have been sun.

I built a monster out of whispers,
let it crawl into my bones,
let it tell me the only story I wanted to hear.

And now, here I stand,
watching trust turn to dust,
watching love fade into silence,
watching them walk away—

because I never thought to ask
before I chose to burn.

There are days when the world is dim,
when the weight of time presses heavy,
and the sky whispers in muted grays—
but then, there is you.

You, with laughter spun like sunlight,
weaving warmth into my weary soul.
Your touch—soft as morning’s first glow—
turns the dust of days to gold.

Every smile you gift me, a coin of joy,
pressed into the treasury of my heart.
Every embrace, a gilded promise,
that even in the dark, we shine.

Time may steal the luster from youth,
may weather our hands with silver,
but the gold we share fades—
it deepens, it strengthens, it remains.

So if the world should turn to shadow,
if years should try to dim our light,
know this: I will always hold onto you,
for you are my gold—forever bright.

To fly,
That’s what I wish.
Never again to be struck
By a switch.
Never again to be tossed
In a ditch.
Never to swallow my pain,
Flinch at the sting on my lip.

A promise was made,
A cold-cut claim—
"Love me forever,"
Then leave me abandoned,
Broken, and shamed.
Not throwing blame,
Admitting our faults
Is the hardest thing.
You'd rather live with disdain.

Maybe it’s me.
Could it be me?
Maybe I'll see it,
Come to my senses,
The honorable thing.
Letting go,
Then dropping the curtain.
No weight, no chains—
I am free.

I am free.

I am free.

Allow me to explain.
Outside, the sky weeps with silver threads,
but it is not truly raining.
The ground is dry beneath my feet,
yet I swear, I feel myself drowning.

In reality—
It is not the storm that chills me,
but the absence of warmth once promised.
Not the wind that carves my bones,
but the silence where your laughter should be.

My zinc winter
clangs hollow where your voice once rang,
a dull, muted season rusted in regret.
The frost bites, not with fangs, but with longing,
etching your name in the breath of the glass.

Is missing
a thaw, a bloom, a sky unstained by memory.
The ache of frozen hands reaching
for what has already melted away.

Your blue spring—
a color I can no longer find,
an echo of something soft and radiant,
like the first petal that dares to rise
from the ruin of winter’s hands.

Tell me,
is it raining where you are?

Sickness.
A middle ground between
A life worth living
And a life sequestered
From the worth
Of living.

Hallowed be thy strength,
Calling forth a certainty
That life will remain.
Preserved, teaching
Lessons of perseverance,
Stagnation and decay.

If only strength
Was strong enough to
Keep sickness at bay.
Falter faster, with ease,
Conveying a simple,
Yet efficient mean.

Time slips, memories fade.
Strength gives in,
An internal raid
Fills the void
With a void,
Yet how surprising

When you were never loved.

In London’s fog, so dimly lit,
Where gaslight shadows softly flit,
Albert Crowe, unseen, did tread
The backstage world where dreams are fed.
By day, a hand upon the stage,
By night, alone with silent rage,
Within his room, his heart’s lament
Beneath the guise of merriment.

A lonely soul in twilight’s gloom,
His life a cycle, toil his doom,
Yet spring brought change with sweet Eliza’s face,
A star whose light his dark would chase.
Her voice like bells, her smile bright,
That cut through shadows of the night,
But admiration soon would turn
To darker flames that fiercely burn.

His heart, once filled with gentle views,
Now tracked her steps, her smiles perused;
From fascination grew a need
That festered into darkened greed.
In corridors, he’d plan to meet,
With props misplaced, and whispers sweet,
Yet every smile she’d cast aside
Drove deeper still the thorns of pride.

When autumn’s chill brought spectral play,
He chose this scene to make her stay.
A dagger hidden, curtain’s call—
This hallowed eve would see it all.
In her chamber, quiet, dim,
He spoke of love, his voice so grim.
A blade, a ******, a scream did rise,
A final look in frightened eyes.

With horror, what his hands had wrought,
The chaos of a twisted thought.
He fled the scene, his soul unbound,
Her spectral screams the only sound.
By guilt and visions sorely pressed,
In nightly haunts, he found no rest.
Each day a play, each smile a mask,
In sorrow’s light, he’d daily bask.

One night, upon the stage, he stood,
Clad in the hero’s garb and hood.
The crowd, unaware of coming doom,
Watched silent in the gathering gloom.
He spoke, his voice a hollow shell,
Of love and loss, of heaven and hell:
“Behold a man, by darkness driven,
To seek his peace, to be forgiven.

“My heart was lost, my soul misled,
By dreams of love that now are dead.
For in my grasp, a deed so dire,
Has quenched the light of passion’s fire.
O Eliza, sweet and fair,
Your ghost now haunts my every prayer.
No longer can this heart be still,
Tonight, I end this tragic thrill.

“So listen now, as curtains close,
On final acts, on bitter woes.
With this blade that once did part,
The life and breath of my own heart,
I take my leave, my soul to free,
From chains of mortal agony.
May angels guide me where I roam,
And lead my spirit safely home.”

With that, he turned the blade to chest,
In death’s embrace, he sought his rest.
The curtain fell, the crowd in tears,
Reflecting on his haunted years.
Silence reigned, the theatre still,
A tale of woe, of mortal ill.
On vaudeville’s stage, a shadow cast,
A love, a life, a breath—his last.

The moon spills silver across the tide,
A whisper of ghosts in the hush of the air,
Petals unravel where lost lovers cried,
Time bends like a ribbon, frayed and bare,
And sorrow sings where shadows hide.

The wind wears the voices of those left behind,
Their laughter like embers still glowing in dust,
Soft hands now woven in memory’s bind,
A touch that dissolves when morning is ******,
Yet echoes linger in a heart entwined.

Dew laces the grass like a mourner’s sigh,
A requiem hummed by the pulse of the sea,
Dreams that were cradled now tremble and die,
Their ashes entwined in the roots of a tree,
And love, though faded, refuses to lie.

A candle still flickers in windows long cold,
Its flame a defiance, a wish left unspoken,
Like pages of stories too heavy to hold,
Written in ink that time has broken,
Yet still, the embers of hope burn gold.