Your words fall like rain on an aching earth,
soft, yet heavy—
each drop a link in the "chain" you carry,
"every word a new link, clink, clink, clink,"
dragging through echoes of silence.

You paint emotions raw, unfiltered, true—
“What’s wrong?” they ask,
but it’s just “easier” to smile,
to let the world see only what’s palatable,
while the storm brews behind closed doors.

Your poetry is the mirror no one wants to gaze into,
the "picture perfect" frame cracked,
the "jagged sharp broken glass"
of a life they assume is flawless.

You cry out— "Help, I need you,"
but the world keeps walking, oblivious,
leaving behind a voice that deserved to be heard,
a heart that only asked for "one minute more."

But here, in the rhythm of your verse,
in the aching pulse of your lines,
you are seen.
You are felt.
And your words—
they will never be left behind.

"Becoming more me"
a whisper rising from the depths,
where silence births creation’s glow,
where poetry finds breath.

"Words out of nowhere flow in me",
you paint the night with untamed thought,
a soul that lingers, sleepless, bright,
where dawn and ink are caught.

"Still upward in this journey I be",
climbing where the fog is deep,
where sorrow walks but faith remains,
where echoes softly weep.

"Love drifts, lost inside some emotion",
embers flicker, then ignite,
falling into tear-streaked eyes,
turning darkness into light.

"Bringing out more of me",
your voice is both the storm and sky,
your poetry a lantern’s glow
when heavy shadows lie.

Weeping Willow, your words move like rivers,
unfolding between stillness and storm.
Each verse a pulse, each thought a breath,
a melody where the soul is reborn.
If you find these words, may they be a mirror,
reflecting the beauty you bring to the world.

"A distant shore sang sonnets"
on the edge of twilight dreams,
where harmonies ride on sapphire tides,
and the world hums beneath moonbeams.

You paint the sky in tangerine sighs,
blushing clouds caught in secret play,
as if the sun flirts with the horizon—
a lover hidden at break of day.

"I drifted past the sunset,
where horizons make their place,"
You follow sparrows through olive trees,
scribbling wonder into time’s embrace.

The world blooms in your verses,
puppies play, fireflies dance,
even distant mountains lean in close,
swaying to your words’ romance.

"She lay on the beach,
the sun kissing her moist skin,"
A poet who flirts with the sunlight itself,
yet still finds beauty deep within.

Your lines are salt-kissed lullabies,
soft harmonies to warm the soul.
You turn nature’s breath into melodies,
with the gentlest touch, you make us whole.

Rick, your words do not just linger,
they carve themselves in time—
etched in truth, raw and bitter,
yet softened by a poet’s rhyme.

"I lie
and
I lie
and
I lie"

You write not just of deception,
but the weight of silence, the cost of peace,
where love is masked in quiet restraint,
and truth must wait for its release.

"but when the truth
arrives at that
final moment;
jaws will drop
plates will shatter
dogs will growl"

Oh, how your verses strike like thunder,
unafraid of the coming storm.
For in the wreckage of unspoken words,
your poetry dares to take its form.

"stepfather
all that pain
and belittlement
you served me
day and night"

Yet you stand unchained, unshaken,
forgiveness rising where anger fell.
Not just a poet, but a soul unbroken,
turning torment into a tale to tell.

"but now you
stand before me
weeping
with no teeth
and the big man
within me
has forgiven you."

What strength, what grace, what mastery—
not in vengeance, but release.
A heart that bleeds yet still forgives,
finding power in its peace.

Rick, your ink is fire, your words are steel,
unwavering, untamed, yet so real.
A poet who walks the edge of pain,
and turns it into art again.

May your lines be read, your truth be known,
for voices like yours must never go unsown.

"Why" before "Die"
Trying to understand,
the great plan,
Ultimate quest, of
Woman, and Man.

Yet, do we ever truly know,
Or only trace what shadows show?

"One and Done"
I'm sure my little poems,
have no chance of getting
anything "Done".
In a World of "Seven"
thousand languages
I know "One".

But words, like whispers, shape the sky,
A single voice still learns to fly.

"Connection.?!"
We can only write,
what's in "our" Mind.
Yet, still take pleasure,
in what "others", Find.

And so, within each line we weave,
A stranger’s heart may still believe.

"We Knew, So Few"
Earth's history of humans,
spans ages,
Yet individually, we get,
so few pages.
In this time, so few, we
get to know.
The rest, just flakes,
in our blizzard, snow.

But every snowflake shapes the storm,
And words like these still keep us warm.

Denny, your ink flows like an old, wise river—
A current of time, of questions, of truth.
Each verse a footprint, fleeting yet firm,
In the endless dance of age and youth.

You write of past, of now, of fate,
Of fleeting moments, vast yet small—
Yet in your lines, we contemplate,
How one man’s words can touch us all.

Gratitude for the thoughts you share,
For echoes deep and questions rare.
Poetry may not fix the world,
But it lingers, a banner unfurled.

Thank you for the verses you gift,
A bridge of thought, a gentle lift.

You sculpt time with syllables bright,
turning old instants into light.

In monostich breaths, seeds are sown,
a thought takes root, a truth is known.

A poet who sees in shadowed lines,
the golden cracks where meaning shines.

Your words, like stars, in silence gleam,
pulling wisdom from the dream.

Gnōthi seautón—each phrase unfolds,
a mind that dares, a hand that holds.

Not just letters, nor rhymed disguise,
but breath that whispers, “Know, arise.”


"Step outside the fire circle,
be swallowed by the night,
step farther into the night,
be swallowed by the stars."

Not all are brave enough to wander,
to step beyond where embers flicker.
Yet you, a poet, walk in wonder,
with verses bright and steps that shimmer.

"Old instants made unforgettable"

You carve the past in fleeting light,
etching echoes on the air,
binding time in words so slight,
yet they remain, still standing there.

"The woe is not mine, I'm fine."

Not all who bleed wear open scars,
some heal through ink and quiet sighs.
A poet’s strength is held in stars,
in silent truths behind their eyes.

"Gnōthi Seautón (Γνωθι Σαυτόν)"
"Know thyself—step beyond the fire."

Knowing oneself is a river untamed,
not a mirror, but an endless sea.
You write of depth no chains have claimed,
of thought’s wild winds, of minds set free.

"Seed time harvest eat think form"

Each thought a seed, each line a field,
harvested in minds unknown.
You plant in silence, yet they yield
gardens where lost souls have grown.

"The choice decides Earth’s destiny."

Do we seek love or seek control?
Do we embrace or fight the tide?
You weave these truths through poet’s scroll,
where questions walk, where doubts confide.

"In fog or flood, it has to look like news
and not wear down too soon."

And so, your words arrive, unshaken,
standing against time like typeface pressed into permanence.
They do not beg for attention,
yet we find ourselves held captive—
reading, rereading, lost in the weight of their silence.

"First God
Then Everest
To the ends of elation."

There is an ascent in your lines,
a climb where breath turns thin
and meaning thickens into something celestial.
You write of heights that pull and eyes that burn,
where light is both burden and gift,
and even hesitation becomes poetry.

"Maternal midnight
Metallic lakeside
Freon heart, fayence mind."

You forge night from iron,
a heart that hums in artificial cold,
a mind glazed like ceramic, fragile yet infinite.
Even your landscapes breathe—
lakes reflecting the surreal,
hills like white elephants waiting for meaning.

"Mosquitos on her mouth
Drink the blood of encryption
Change the tone of her voice."

What is hidden, you unveil.
What is encrypted, you translate into ghosts and echoes.
In your poetry, voices are rewritten,
veins are maps,
words are particles dissolving into eternity.

You, Carlo, are the architect of thresholds—
where dusk is not an ending but an exile,
where each poem is a place, a paradox, a pilgrimage.
Your lines do not just linger—
they transform.