Locked Rooms

You lie beside me every night,
But dream alone, beyond my sight.
Your eyes drift off to places deep,
While I stay waking in the sleep.

You speak of work, of plans, the day,
But never what you’ve throw away.
Not what you long for, fear, or miss—
Just surface talk, no hidden wish.

I ask, you nod, then change the thread,
As if your dreams were something dead.
A vault you never want to share,
A soul too tangled to lay bare.

I don’t need answers tied in bows,
Or every thought you’ve ever known.
I just want in—just one small key—
To feel your fire burning free.

But walls are what you offer back,
And silence fills the growing crack.
How strange to love, and still not know
The places that your heart won’t go.

I can’t hold dreams you never speak,
Or heal the parts you will not seek.
I’m not a ghost, I’m not a guess—
I’m here, but aching nonetheless.

So tell me where your stars are set,
What haunts your nights with quiet debt.
I want to love you, fully true—
But I can’t reach the locked-up you.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Hands That Wait

You carry weight with silent pride,
A storm you never let outside.
I see it press against your spine,
But every offer, you decline.

“I’m fine,” you say, with furrowed brow,
As if that’s all you will allow.
You wear the world like armor tight,
Then wonder why you lose the fight.

I reach for you with open hands,
But you’ve built walls from shifting sands.
I see you drown and will not swim,
Afraid that help admits you’re dim.

But strength is not a solo act,
It’s in the pause, the soft impact
Of letting someone in the dark
Hold even just the smallest part.

You mow the grass, the dog, the day—
But not the cracks that won’t obey.
And I can’t fix what you won’t share,
Can’t love the weight if you’re not there.

I’m here, still here, with hands outstretched,
My care not soft, not vague, not fetched.
But love can’t break through what you cage—
And silence slowly turns to rage.

So tell me where the hurt begins.
Let me help you hold the pins.
We lose the fight when we don’t see—
That even strong hearts bend to breathe.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Not Your Students

In classrooms cold where chalk once sang, A silence fell that bruised, then rang—Not with words, but with the stare, The kind that strips you standing there.

You raised your hand, a hopeful reach,
But hope was not what they would teach. Instead, a smirk, a cutting tone—
You left that room more skin than bone.

Then home, where love should be a balm, became a storm disguised as calm.
A voice that picked at every seam,
Till you forgot your right to dream.

“You call that clean?” “You think that’s smart?” “I’ll do it myself” was the remark. Each word a dagger masked as art. Too loud, too late, too much, too thin— No place outside, no peace within.

Their love was weighed in harsh critique, A scorecard life, a twisted streak. You shrank to fit their brittle mold, While they stood proud, and you grew cold.

And still you moved through every day,
A ghost in roles you couldn’t play.
The teacher, spouse—they wore their masks—While you were buried under tasks.

But here you are, still breathing deep,
Though night has stolen countless sleep.
Your truth is not a whispered lie—It grows each time you dare to cry.

One day, the mirrors will not lie,
And you will see the reason why
The ones who break us hide their shame— Because you carry all their flame.

Let it burn, and light your name.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.