I woke before the sun
not because I had to
because I wanted to.
Tied my shoes like it mattered.
Because it did.

Eight hours in the gym,
Every shot had rhythm,
every move, precision.
I wasn’t just good.
I was gifted.
I knew it.

No one saw me fold into crossovers
like breath folding into wind.
No one saw the nets whisper
my name back to me after each swish.
No one said keep going.
No one said I believe in you.
So I stopped.
At thirteen, maybe fourteen,
I unlaced the dream.

Not because I lacked fire
but because I got tired
of carrying it alone.

I think of that boy now
not the one who quit,
but the one who could’ve gone all the way
and it stings.

Because greatness
isn’t always lost in defeat.
Sometimes, it’s buried
under silence.

Some nights I am not running
I am still.
Not happy, not sad,
just not hungry for more
because for a moment
I forget what I don’t have.

I make a home out of this silence,
lay down my fears like coats
on the cold floor of my heart,
and sit.

But then comes the boy.

The one with dust in his lungs
from screaming into pillows,
with hands too small to hold
the reasons no one stayed.

Even when I dress him
in the things I’ve earned
he still stares at me
with those ******* eyes,
asking why it still hurts
to be.

He doesn’t care
that I built something from fire.
He only asks
why the fire’s still inside me.

And some nights
I want to take a blade of thought
and cut that voice out,
carve away the part of me
that says I’ll never be whole,
never be worth the air I breathe.

But I get up.

I build again.
I shake hands, send emails, lift weights,
try to sculpt a man
from the ache of not being valued.

Every win is a window
I climb through
just to see if he’s still there.
And he always is
barefoot, bleeding
on the glass I left behind.

What no one tells you
about childhood trauma
is that it isn’t a story
you grow out of
it’s a script your bones memorize,
reciting it silently
even as you sing of peace.

Even with everything,
the boy survives.
And maybe just maybe
he’s waiting not to be fixed,
but to be heard.

On golden shores I dream of building,
a home where sunlight softly spills,
where lavender skies kiss turquoise waters,
and whispers dance on windowsills.

In southern France, where oceans breathe,
my house will rise from sand and sea,
yet its heart won’t beat in timber beams,
but in quiet peace, inside of me.

This home, no fortress carved from stone,
but woven from serenity’s thread
no voices raised, no stormy echoes,
only harmony gently spread.

For I've known walls that trapped my shadows,
corridors haunted by younger pains;
rooms where childhood's wounded whispers
painted darkness in cold refrains.

My lowest self still walks those hallways,
a ghost imprisoned in yesterday’s gloom.
But now I dream of doors wide open,
air scented softly by jasmine bloom.

In rooms adorned by tranquil silence,
curtains stirred by a tender breeze,
every space is filled with kindness,
each breath a note of calm release.

I’ll stand, in highest being,
bathed in sunrise, pure and clear
my spirit dancing, unafraid,
safe and whole, untouched by fear.

For homes aren't merely walls and rafters,
nor roofs to shelter from the rain;
they are sanctuaries we carry inward,
hearts where peace can bloom again.

So by the sea, I'll lay foundations,
a sanctuary true and free,
where my highest self awakens,
finding home at last in me.

I watch him now
the little boy I once was,
arms wide open, spinning beneath
his first snowfall,
eyes lit with uncontainable wonder.
Snowflakes kissing his cheeks,
melting into laughter,
nothing more precious
than the delicate miracle
falling softly from the sky.

There he is,
pure and weightless,
untouched by the gravity
of worthiness and achievement.
No goals set, no mountains yet to climb
just a gentle whisper from the clouds,
telling him it's beautiful
simply to exist.

How did I lose him?
Where along this winding path
did I trade wonder for worth,
presence for purpose,
and quiet joy
for the endless hunger
to prove I belong?

I’m here,
watching a video of innocence
that feels worlds away.
I miss that child
who knew no moment
was ever wasted,
that happiness was not
earned, but given freely
like snow.

Let me find him again
in gentle silence,
to hold the falling flakes
in palms not burdened by ambition,
to taste the air
without guilt or shame,
to breathe deeply
and remember that
before everything else,
I am allowed
to simply be.

They ask where we go when the breathing stops
when the lungs grow still and the hands fall open.
But nothing in nature is lost,
only changed.

Your atoms, forged in the cores of stars,
traveled billions of years to make you.
Each carbon thread in your chest
once belonged to a forest,
a comet,
a lover’s whispered breath in ancient dusk.
Energy doesn’t vanish it shifts.
That’s the law. Thermodynamics, first and final.

You were never just skin and thought.
You were borrowed stardust,
held together by delicate electromagnetic songs,
a fleeting arrangement in the symphony of entropy.
So when your heart slows and your neurons dim,
the song doesn’t end.
It just passes on
into roots, into rain, into flame.

You’ll feed the trees that cradle new nests.
You’ll drift in the ocean’s salt kiss,
become part of someone’s laugh,
the warmth between clasped hands
on a night when someone needs reminding
they are not alone.

The mind yes, it’s complex:
trillions of synapses,
patterns folding into patterns
like galaxies inside thought.
And still,
consciousness remains a riddle
even the brightest minds can’t fully name.
But if it is energy
a field, a wave,
then who’s to say it doesn’t echo?
Resonate?
Return?

I like to think
you become a language the universe still speaks
in wind through grass,
in quantum fluctuations,
in the silence before someone says,
I miss you,
and suddenly, they feel you there.

We do not vanish.
We reappear.
In form, in feeling, in frequency.
Every goodbye is a redistribution
a love note sent across the fabric of space,
waiting to be read
by someone
who still believes
we are all
one thing
reaching for itself.

Love me with chaos,
whisper poison into kisses,
a taste of honey masking venom
my sweet ruin,
my favorite destruction.

Hate me gently,
wrap bitterness in velvet promises;
your touch is fire,
a warmth I crave
though it burns me raw,
leaving scars I wear proudly.

Keep me addicted,
always searching for that rush
the dizzying high
of your stormy eyes,
your distant voice,
your fleeting approval
that keeps me begging,
breathless at the altar
of my own undoing.

I know you’re danger,
yet danger feels like home.
Your love’s a fever,
and I shiver willingly,
caught between
the poison and paradise
of loving and hating you.