In sterile halls, cold silence screams,
hospital lights slice through dreams;
my casted arm, my leg confined,
pain more bearable than my mind.

Machines whisper rhythmic sighs
each beep a truth, each pause, a lie.
My eyes scan doors, swing left then right;
no footsteps rush to ease this night.

I search the empty chairs again,
hope extinguished, feelings thin.
How can silence feel this loud?
How can absence feel so proud?

Parents gone, their choice so clear
my heart whispers, "Wish you were here."
Did I fail, or am I unseen?
Worth defined by spaces between.

Nurses pass with hurried feet,
their fleeting smiles incomplete.
"Do you need something?" they softly say
"I need someone who wants to stay."

I sit alone with distant thoughts,
my mind tangled, stomach in knots.
If family means love, then why,
is love the thing I can't rely?

Strong is the man I’ve become
I’ve learned to love the reflection  
that once felt foreign, distorted, untrue.  
I’ve carved dreams from discipline,  
built strength from sleepless nights  
spent chasing life with relentless steps.

Yet beneath skin grown tough,  
scars remain quiet reminders  
of a child forever searching,  
eyes wide, heart hopeful,  
reaching toward invisible warmth.

Every goal I set, every height scaled,  
bears a subtle whisper
an echo of longing,  
a hidden prayer:  
"Let this be home.  
Let this be meaning."

Some days I barely hear it,  
lost in triumph, bathed in sunlight.  
Others, it trembles louder
woven intricately, softly  
into every victory I seek,  
every summit I climb.

Though strength carries me,  
though love fills me,  
still the child inside whispers,  
asking quietly, gently
"When will it be enough  
to finally feel whole?"

I watched other children from windows,
Their parents pointing at butterflies,
Explaining why the sky turns purple at dusk,
Answering "why" with patience, not sighs.

My questions echoed in empty rooms,
Bounced off walls, returned to me unanswered.
I learned to swallow them down like stones,
Heavy in a belly already hungry for more than food.

At night, I'd whisper to dust motes dancing
In the single beam of hallway light that slipped beneath my door.
They became my first science lesson,
The universe's smallest planets orbiting in my personal dark.

I pressed my small palms against encyclopedias,
Pages stuck together from disuse,
And taught myself words too big for my mouth,
Because no one was there to simplify them.

When I found a dead sparrow in the yard,
There was no one to explain death or grief.
I buried it alone with questions as its gravestone,
And learned that curiosity is sometimes paired with pain.

The other children learned wonder sitting on shoulders,
Seeing farther from the height of love.
I learned it on my knees, gathering shards of broken things,
Trying to understand what held them together before.

My curiosity wasn't nurtured it was necessary,
A rope I braided myself to climb out of the silence.
Each question formed another knot to grip,
When small hands had nothing else to hold.

I learned loneliness
before I learned to speak,
a child quietly building a home
from silence,
walls thick enough
to hide pain, fear,
everything I couldn’t afford
for the world to see.

I watched love through
my friend’s living room window,
parents who smiled without conditions,
voices softer than the edges
I’d grown accustomed to.
I’d wonder
were their hearts made differently,
or was mine?

In that emptiness,
I taught myself how to move
three steps ahead,
reading faces like books
I’d never fully trust
because trusting
meant losing,
and losing meant returning
to a quiet room
with no one waiting inside.

Yet, behind every shield
I raised,
every hurt I inflicted
just to prove I was still here,
was a child desperately
trading pieces of himself
for scraps of approval
tiny affirmations
that someone could care.

And today,
I still carry that child,
his silent void tucked within
my ribs,
aching in quiet hours,
whispering that no success,
no strength, no victory
will ever compare
to feeling loved
without having to earn it.

At night,
the truth of this absence
returns:
I would trade
everything
every breath, every triumph,
every dream
just to feel
what it’s like
to truly be someone’s child.

You hid her like a folded paper bird
tucked behind your ribs
a secret even your shadows
were too afraid to name.

But sometimes, when the world grew quiet,
she’d press her palm to the glass of your eyes:
a flash of laughter sharp as April rain,
a question whispered to the moon
(“Will you hurt me?”)
before you locked her back inside.

I learned to watch for her.
When you’d still, a heartbeat too long,
your voice a pendulum between yes and no,
I’d leave honeyed words on the windowsill
“It’s safe here. The night is just a blanket.
Come out, and we’ll name the stars something silly.”

You built her a fortress of “not yet” and “no one stays,”
but I swear I heard her humming once
barefoot, half-alive,
tracing circles on the cold linoleum
while you slept.

I wanted to give her the world:
a room without echoes,
a door that didn’t bruise her knuckles,
a morning where you’d both wake
and not know whose breath
was whose.

Now, I imagine her still there
the only hymn your heart ever sang true,
the uncaged thing that made you
more than just survival.
I hope she knows:
when I traced the scars on your armor,
I was searching for her fingerprints
the girl who turned your blood to wildfire,
who painted galaxies in the hollows
you called empty.
She wasn’t a fragment. She was the lens.
Through her, I saw you:
unflinching, unmasked,
alive.

I’ve carried chaos
like a keychain
noisy as my home;
but lately,
I’ve found doors
opening
into spaces
I call mine.

Each step
is a quiet arrival
into freedom,
unlocking peace
like rooms
filled gently
with silence,
a stillness
I’ve dreamed of.

In the park,
nature unfolds
tiny worlds
beneath my fingertips
grass whispering green,
trees stretching slowly,
animals stitching
quiet stories
into earth’s tapestry.

I paint
the poetry
of sunlight on leaves,
tracing colors
only nature knows;
each brushstroke
a soft conversation
between my heart
and the quiet
of the world.

Here,
I feel earth turning.
a gentle rotation
underneath my feet
grounding me,
steadying my soul,
reminding me
I belong
exactly
where peace
meets freedom.

This is my sanctuary,
the place
where chaos
melts quietly
into creativity
where poems bloom
like wildflowers,
and my thoughts
finally feel
like home.

There’s an old house
at the edge of my memory,
paint faded to whispers,
roof weathered
by quiet storms
no one else sees.

I still walk past
each evening,
pausing where roses
once bloomed,
petals lost gently
to seasons
we didn’t notice
were changing.

Windows darkened,
but reflections remain
ghosts of laughter,
voices that felt
like candles
in empty rooms,
glowing softly
with something
I still can’t name.

Inside, silence
gathers like dust
over tables set
for conversations
we never finished,
chairs waiting
patiently
for someone
to come home.

And though doors
have quietly closed,
I keep a single key
pressed against my chest
a quiet promise
never broken,
held softly
in the hollow
between missing
and letting go.

Maybe someday
you’ll pass this way,
notice curtains
move slightly
like breath,
and wonder
who lives
in the spaces
we left empty

only then realizing
it was you.