Oh merry-go-round of life,  
masked revelers dance unseen,  
in halls of velvet whispers rife,  
where power dons a darkened sheen.

Golden masks conceal the eyes  
that govern secrets none will know;  
in crystal halls, they hypnotize,  
pulling strings from down below.

Chandeliers drip with hidden truths,  
champagne flows through veins of glass,  
above the crowds, aloof, uncouth,  
masters laughing as puppets pass.

Spinning dreams of carousel gold,  
gilded horses blind and bound,  
fortunes spun, bought and sold,  
silken hands spin round and round.

Beneath masks carved in subtle grin,  
privilege sips its chosen wine;  
behind velvet ropes of sin,  
the poor outside peer through and pine.

In corridors of painted night,  
tales told by shadows’ breath
hidden rules by candlelight,  
the poor dance blindfolded to death.

Yet the music spins, surreal, lush,  
a fevered dream in masquerade  
where those who rule whisper “hush,”  
as justice sleeps and debts unpaid.

One day I want to paint with you
brush to canvas, worlds aligned;
to follow colors as they bloom,
a vector deep into your mind.

Your art a quiet revelation,
depths unseen, yet clear to me;
every stroke a conversation,
glimpses of infinity.

Teach me how your colors speak
subtle hues your soul invents;
guide my hand when lines grow weak,
show me shades that silence meant.

In art we’ll bridge the space between,
where minds meet beyond the known,
capturing truths the heart has seen,
painting worlds that feel like home.

And when my palette mirrors yours,
I’ll understand your silent grace,
drawing closer, opening doors,
to paint reflections of your space.

When you speak,
the world aligns again
words threading softly,
reassuring my restless heart.
I savor those small moments,
your presence gentle
like morning light
across empty rooms.

Yet, your silence
it fills me with questions,
leaving me wandering corridors
of confusion,
wondering
if I’ve stepped wrong,
spoken poorly,
or missed some hidden truth.

Have I broken something fragile
in this unseen bond?
This uncertainty echoes
without end,
heavy and unspoken,
yet I carry it willingly,
holding tight
to the quiet hope
that my care alone
can be enough.

Even unanswered,
even without certainty,
my heart chooses
to remain
beyond reasons,
beyond answers,
beyond all understanding.

You drift back softly,  
like the memory of a song  
I once knew by heart
and just as I begin to sing again,  
you disappear into silence.

Each hello feels like sunlight  
breaking through storm clouds
warm enough to believe  
the storm is finally over,  
but fleeting enough to remind me  
I’m still caught in the rain.

It’s like something calls you away  
right when your laughter  
begins to sound familiar,  
just when your smile  
feels safe again.

I reach for you,  
hands trembling with hope,  
but my fingers close on shadows,  
empty air left colder  
by your absence.

You're always free to leave,  
yet each quiet withdrawal  
cuts deeper than words could  
a wound invisible, yet felt  
in every moment you’re not here.

But even if I don't understand  
the tides that pull you away,  
I accept this part of you,  
the hidden currents,  
the silence you need to breathe.

Because caring for you means  
loving even the spaces between us,  
holding gently  
the mysteries you keep  
just beyond my reach.

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.