Her Text

It came out of the softest blue,
A simple line—but sharp and true.
“Dinner tonight? Just you and me?”
And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

You rarely plan—you’re steady, slow,
But this time, you let your wanting show.
And in that ask, I felt the flame—
Desire dressed in your sweet name.

I smiled like I had something to hide,
The kind of grin you can’t confide.
My chest lit up, my pulse ran wild—
You’d chosen me—no work, no child.

I pictured us across a plate,
Your knees near mine, the quiet weight.
A glance, a brush, a smirk, a tease—
The kind of want that doesn’t freeze.

I rushed through tasks, the hours crawled,
The thought of you—untamed, uncalled.
And somewhere deep, my mind slipped free—
To later on, just you and me.

Not just the food, not just the wine,
But where your skin would meet with mine.
The slow undress, the dim-lit air,
The way you pull me everywhere.

So much in one small, glowing text—
A dinner date, a body next.
The thrill of love that still can spark
A blaze from something soft and dark.

And when we met, and you leaned in,
The night had barely yet begin.
But I already knew the truth:
You still choose me—and I want you too.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Hope at Hope

The roses came a little bruised,
Their petals soft, their color used.
But still you smiled and set them high,
A quiet grace behind your eye.

The morning stretched with open skies,
No noise, no rush, no reason why.
We pedaled out, just us three,
You, our son, and me—set free.

He led the way, so full of light,
His little frame in morning’s height.
We followed close, hearts keeping time,
The world behind, the day sublime.

Then brunch at Hope, long-planned with care,
A little place, a lot to share.
Your coffee steamed, your laughter warm,
Inside that calm, we found our form.

We talked like we had all the years,
No stress, no weight, no silent fears.
Just waffles, smiles, and hands that knew—
This day was made for only you.

Later came the dog’s delight,
A walk, the yard, the soft dusk light.
We ran, we played, we breathed in deep,
And watched the world begin to sleep.

And when the stars rose overhead,
We met again in our warm bed.
No need for words, just touch and trust—
A kind of love that feels like us.

Though roses fade, this day will stay—
A perfect bloom in memory’s clay.
A ride, a laugh, a look, a kiss—
A life built slowly, full of this.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Fire Through the Screen

Miles of sand, a war-torn sky,
And still, it’s you who floods my mind.
Your face lit soft in pixel light,
A ghost of touch in desert night.

You whisper low, your voice like fire,
Each breath a spark, each word desire.
My hands can’t reach, but still they ache,
For every curve I cannot take.

Your beauty glows through static haze,
A sun that burns in far-off days.
I watch you move, a sacred spell,
A private world where bodies dwell.

You tease the straps from sun-kissed skin,
And I forget the world I’m in.
No bombs, no guns, just you and me,
Two souls undressed by memory.

I talk you through with hungry eyes,
You answer back in breathless sighs.
The screen between us can’t divide
The fever rising deep inside.

This isn’t just some fleeting thrill—
It’s need, it’s love, it’s wanting still.
To claim you whole, to taste your name,
To feel you burn and do the same.

And though you’re half a world away,
We keep the dark and cold at bay.
Through cords and keys and whispered pleas,
We love in digital release.

Come home to me—my heart, my flame.
Until you do, I’ll speak your name
Into the night, into the fire,
With every pixel, every desire.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Tracks That Night

It was late, the world drawn tight,
The house held still in soft dim light.
You took the dog out, routine, small,
Just moonlight spilling down the hall.

Then back inside—unnoticed trail,
Dog **** tracks, a quiet fail.
But something deep inside me snapped,
A thousand weights the moment tapped.

I raised my voice, too sharp, too loud,
Anger dressed in shameful shroud.
And all the while, behind one door,
Our son was sleeping on the floor.

His room aglow with soft night sounds,
While I let darkness do its rounds.
Not at you—but at the world,
At every scar my mind still hurled.

The bodies seen in crowded halls,
Cold eyes beneath fluorescent calls.
The screams that echoed, sharp and raw,
When steel gave way on 35W’s maw.

All of it, like smoke, unseen—
But thick and choking in between
The cracks of life, the calm we fake,
Until the soul begins to break.

You didn’t cause the flood that came—
You just stood still and took the blame.
Your hands had only tried to care,
But I threw rage into the air.

And now, regret—too wide to name,
I ache with guilt, I burn with shame.
I’d give up years to fix that night,
To hold you close, not choose the fight.

He slept through all, our little one,
While I forgot who I’d become.
But I remember now—I swear—
The love that built this home with care.

Forgive me, if you can, someday,
Though I can’t look myself that way.
But I’ll keep trying, step by step—
For you, for him, while the world slept.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Summer Jetta Love

We hit the road in July’s blaze,
A Jetta GLI stuck in heatwave haze.
No A/C, just wind and sun,
Two fools on fire, just having fun.

At a truckstop off the Interstate,
We found fake teeth—it felt like fate.
You wore them grinning ear to ear,
We laughed so hard we wiped a tear.

The drag strip roared, chrome cars in line,
You called one “****,” I said “fine.”
We wandered through that motor maze,
Lost in torque and sun-drenched daze.

Later, under neon skies,
Italian plates and garlic ties.
Your hand found mine, your laugh stayed sweet,
Love poured out in wine and heat.

But what stayed burned behind my eyes—
That Off-Broadway, those city skies.
You in a turquoise dress so bright,
It made the whole **** stage feel light.

You smiled like you were born to shine,
And every word, each look, was mine.
The city buzzed, the night felt new—
And all I saw was simply you.

That’s when I knew, deep in my chest,
Through sweat, fake teeth, and all the rest—
That real love isn’t planned or dressed,
It’s turquoise nights, and saying yes.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

When She Comes

I am young, with restless fire,
A heart that hums with soft desire.
Not for games or passing thrills,
But for the one who quiets chills.

I walk through nights with open eyes,
Beneath the stars, beneath the skies.
Watching, waiting, soul in bloom,
For her to step into the room.

Not just beauty, though I dream
Of eyes that hold a secret gleam—
But grace, and laughter rich and free,
A voice that sings in sync with me.

I’ve seen the echoes, danced with ghosts,
Loved too fast and lost the most.
But I believe—no need to chase,
She’ll find me in the perfect place.

I’ll know her not by just her face,
But by the calm she brings to space.
A presence warm, a touch sincere,
The kind that pulls your future near.

She’ll ask for truth, not clever lines,
She’ll match the rhythm in my signs.
And when she speaks, the world will dim—
The noise will fade, the light will swim.

I’ll give her all, without a fight—
My morning thoughts, my dreams at night.
And in her eyes, I’ll finally see
The love I saved was meant to be.

So I wait—not lost, but sure—
That love that’s real will still endure.
And when she comes, I will not run—
For I’ll have known she was the one.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

The Leftover Man

I gave the world my younger years,
My sweat, my hands, my quiet tears.
Built homes from bones and dreams from dust,
Held hearts like glass, in sacred trust.

Love, I poured it like a flood,
Painted pain in shades of blood.
A thousand gifts I gave away—
Now all that’s mine is shades of gray.

My canvas bare, my toolbox closed,
Muscles firm, but heart exposed.
The artist still lives in these veins,
But carries scars like weathered chains.

I tried to keep the center whole,
Held tight the threads, played every role.
To keep the family safe and near—
Their laughter close, their silence clear.

I fought for “us” when it got tough,
When words were few, and love felt rough.
But sometimes even strongest glue
Can’t hold a bond that’s split in two.

They say “Start over,” like it’s light,
Like fire still burns through every night.
But embers don’t always crave the flame,
And effort’s not a younger man’s game.

Could I love again? I don’t know.
There’s warmth still buried under snow.
I’m fit, I’m fierce, my hands still build,
But the soul inside feels half-unwilled.

Yet if she came, with eyes that see
The masterpiece inside of me—
Would I rise, and try once more?
Or just nod gently, close that door?

I have so much—but is it wise
To trade the calm for stormy skies?
Still, love is work, and I’m a man
Who’s built more life than most folks can.

I kept the fire, I fed the flame,
I stayed when others left the game.
For family, I bled and tried—
I’d do it all again with pride.

So maybe I’ll just wait and see—
If love returns, it earns its key.
Not desperate, but open wide—
A life rebuilt, with none to hide.

Guatemala

I was young,
Military Police with clean new boots
And a chest full of pride,
Still thinking service was about salutes,
Not shadows on the other side.

They said, “Guatemala—it won’t be bad.”
Jungle duty, heat and aid.
We packed like boys chasing purpose,
Not knowing what price would be paid.

The border near El Salvador—
That’s where things turned.
A mission blurred into ambush light,
And suddenly, everything burned.

The first shot cracked like thunder,
Then chaos danced through every tree.
My rifle rose before I could think,
Like it already knew what I’d need to be.

And there he was.

Not a ghost. Not some faceless foe.
A man, breathing, crouched in the brush—
Too real, too human, too close.

No mask on me. Just sweat and breath.
And I saw him—God, I saw him—
His eyes locked with mine
In that final second between life and death.

His collar had red-threaded logos,
Symbols I’d never seen before.
But they’re seared in me now,
Just like the way he hit the jungle floor.

I don’t remember pulling the trigger—
Only the sound,
And how silence came after,
Like the jungle held its breath all around.

I stared at his body like it might move,
Like maybe I’d made some mistake.
But war doesn’t offer rewinds
Or give back the things it takes.

Later, the others spoke in code:
Rules of engagement, mission clear.
But all I could see were his eyes,
Still there in my mind, year after year.

They never teach you
How a single second can break a man—
How you carry a stranger’s final breath
Long after your tour ends and the years expand.

I went there thinking I’d find meaning,
Some noble fire in uniform thread.
But in Guatemala, I met a man—
And left with part of myself dead.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Empty Roads, Endless Halls

Before dawn I join the silent rush,
A pharmacy stocked with hope and fear—
Vials lined in antiseptic glow,
Yet nothing cures what’s happening here.

The freeway’s ghosted lanes stretch wide,
No horns, no engines—just my breath
As I speed toward fluorescent light,
Where life and death collide in death.

In scrubs I stand behind the counter,
Counting doses meant to heal,
While down the hall a silent parade
Marches past with no appeal.

Sheeted shapes on carts roll by,
Escorted by the same grim guard—
Faces hidden, fortunes gone,
A daily tally none disregard.

I slip through ICU’s tense air,
Where families huddle, voices low,
Tears carve tracks through hospital blue,
In corners where no cameras go.

Mothers clutching empty hands,
Fathers bowed in shadowed grief—
Their cries spill out into the lobby,
Seeking solace, finding none relief.

I adjust the orders, sign the slips,
Mix the doses, check the charts—
Each pill a promise, each breath a gift,
Yet still the world falls apart.

Security nods, a quiet pact,
We see too much to look away.
Another cart, another soul,
Another line crossed in the fray.

Shift bleeds into sleepless night,
And still the bodies come and go—
I lock the cabinets, dim the lights,
Then close the door on sorrow’s show.

Home at last, I shed my mask,
Carry silence in my bones—
Empty roads and endless halls,
And all the grief we call our own.

But at sunrise I trade my keys
For pedals, tires, and open air—
I cycle out where wild things grow,
Where wind and sunlight clear despair.

Through wooded trails and river bends,
My heartbeat finds a steadier drum—
Nature’s chorus soothes the ache,
And ghosts recede with every hum.

The freeway’s still, but now it’s home,
My bike and I beneath blue domes—
Each mile a small rebirth of hope,
A promise that I’m not alone.

And though the halls will call me back,
I carry forests in my chest—
For in the quiet pines and peaks,
I’ve found a way to breathe—and rest.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

When the Bridge Fell

The lights flickered first—
just a blink,
like the building held its breath.
We thought maybe a surge,
summer storm,
just another twitch in the current of death.

Then the pager cracked.
Sharp voices,
frantic,
codes and numbers too fast to hold.
Something was wrong.
Something was breaking
right there, in the city we thought we knew cold.

“Bridge down. 35W. Full collapse.”

Time split like concrete under weight.
And then it came—
the rush,
the flood,
of sirens and stretchers and fate.

The doors blew open—
not wind,
but people.
Dripping river,
spitting blood,
torn limbs and thousand-yard stares.

The air turned thick with copper and cries.
Scrubs soaked in sweat before the first chart was read.
A child clutched to a chest that wouldn’t rise.
A woman screaming names of the already dead.

No protocol could hold the surge.
No checklist stood a chance.
We were bodies in motion,
lungs on fire,
hearts beating past the edge of chance.

I remember one man—
soaked, shivering, silent—
but his eyes had seen it all.
Steel snap.
Cars fold.
The river rise to swallow the fall.

I held pressure on wounds
with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
And prayed silently between each task—
not for a miracle,
but just for a break in the breaking.

And through it all—
I was alone.
No one waiting when I came home.
My wife, half a world away,
in the desert heat of Iraq,
dodging her own collapse
with every breath she didn’t say.

No one to hold me that night
when the screams still echoed in my head.
No voice down the hallway,
just silence,
and sheets gone cold
on one side of the bed.

I wanted to tell her—
about the blood, the eyes, the flood—
but I swallowed it whole,
knowing she had her own ghosts
to carry through sand and gun smoke.

And yet, somehow,
we stood.
Bent but unbroken.
Moved by some bond that needed no spoken word.
Doctors, nurses, janitors, chaplains—
all of us there
as the grief roared and blurred.

Later, the lights steadied.
The night grew quiet,
but no one really slept.
We carried it home
in our clothes,
in our skin,
in the secrets we wept.

And even now,
years gone past,
when the power blinks or sirens scream,
I’m back there—
in that wave of chaos
that ended one city’s dream—
and I’m still alone,
even when she’s home,
in the place where I never told her everything I’d seen.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

Behind the Locked Door

She knocks once—soft, then walks away,
It’s late, the end of a long, full day.
I hear her sigh through the hallway hum,
The house gone still, the laundry done.

She thinks I’m in here wasting time,
Clicking through reels, chasing the rhyme
Of mindless noise, of YouTube scroll,
Or something darker taking toll.

Maybe she thinks it’s lust or lies,
Some lonely habit in disguise.
But I’m just here beneath the light,
Bleeding out my heart at night.

A journal open, pages worn,
With ink-stained hands and spirit torn.
I write of love and quiet ache,
Of dreams we’ve lost and vows we make.

She doesn’t know this desk holds weight—
My battlefield, my silent gate.
Not po rn, not games, not guilt or shame,
But poems too soft to give a name.

I write of her—those tired eyes,
The way she hums when bread still rises.
The curve she hides beneath old tees,
The way she sleeps, half-turning to me.

I write of us—of things unsaid,
Of years that passed, of tears we shed.
Of joy, of pain, of all we miss,
Of mornings filled with caffeine and kiss.

Someday she’ll find this shrouded spine,
And trace these lines back through the time.
Then maybe she will understand
That silence doesn’t mean unmanned.

So let her wonder what I do
Behind this door she knocks right through.
For while she doubts or walks away,
I write the words I cannot say.

The Poems I Wasn’t Meant to Read

I found the page tucked in a book,
Its fold too neat, like care it took.
A poem, simple—sharp and cold,
A story inked but never told.

“I never loved him,” the first line read,
And something in me quietly bled.
Not anger, not a bitter tone—
Just a truth that stood there, all alone.

No fire, no fight—just frozen air,
A silence shaped like no one there.
Not a trace of me inside the frame,
Not even shadow tied to name.

Elsewhere, a hidden file—another note,
One more poem that she wrote.
A man unknown, his presence far,
Drawn in lines too bold, too clear.

A laugh, a touch, a night of stars,
A place where nothing broke or scarred.
“So much between us left unsaid,”
That final line just rang and bled.

And it was then I felt the sting—
Not just of him, but everything.
The weight of all we never voiced,
Of moments passed, of silent choice.

The dreams we named but never chased,
The goals that time and fear erased.
The plans we whispered half-awake,
Too fragile for the light to take.

The things we needed, never asked,
Desires buried, faces masked.
The nights we held but didn’t feel,
The love we wanted to be real.

And maybe that’s the cruelest cut—
Not lies, not lust, not breaking trust—
But words we held and never freed,
And poems I was never meant to read.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Erik’s First Blades at The Depot

He was four, cheeks red and bright,
Wrapped in wonder, holding tight.
Downtown twinkled, soft and slow,
As winter wrapped The Depot’s glow.

New hockey skates, so tiny, proud,
Laced by mom as he laughed out loud.
Dad checked the fit, tugged each lace—
A quiet grin on mom’s sweet face.

The rink ahead like a frozen dream,
A glowing stage beneath the beams.
We each took one small mittened hand,
And led Erik out across the land.

His feet slid wide, unsure and wild,
But he just beamed—our fearless child.
He stumbled once, then once again,
But giggled loud through every bend.

We guided slow, step after slide,
Then let him try a solo glide.
He moved like light, a little blur,
All bundled up in coats and fur.

One lap became two, then maybe four,
Each pass a memory we’d adore.
He turned to wave, all full of pride—
Our hearts could barely hold the tide.

Beneath the dome, with music sweet,
Tiny blades danced on clumsy feet.
And we stood still, hands held tight,
Two proud souls in soft rink light.

That night we watched our Erik soar,
On skates that barely scraped the floor.
A little boy, with dreams so wide—
And mom and dad, right by his side.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

First Ride, Breezy Point

It was summer sun at Breezy Point,
The lake all glass, the air anoint.
Your small hands wrapped the grips just right,
On your yellow PK Ripper, shining bright.

I’d just come back, dust on my face,
From Cuyuna’s climb, that wild place—
Legs still humming from red rock miles,
But none of it matched your nervous smile.

“Ready, Dad?” you asked so low,
Helmet crooked, eyes aglow.
I steadied the seat with calloused hand,
You wobbled like a colt that tries to stand.

Pedals turned and hearts held tight,
I jogged beside you, step for flight.
You didn’t know, but I let go—
And there you soared, all gold and glow.

Wind in your hair, a sudden shout,
“I’m doing it, Dad!”—no trace of doubt.
Across the lot, past pine and dock,
The moment cracked like a ticking clock.

You rode alone, and I just stood,
Swallowed up in fatherhood.
The yellow frame, the courage earned,
The way the world forever turned.

Later that night, we sat by the fire,
Your cheeks still red, your joy entire.
And I thought of trails and how they bend,
But this one here? It just began, my son.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

After Dave in Ames

We drove through dusk on I-35,
Chasing a sound that made us feel alive.
Ames ahead, with your bare feet on the dash,
Dave on the speakers, hearts beating fast.

The air was thick with corn and flame,
And every mile just fed the flame.
We reached the crowd as the sun went low,
Wrapped in rhythm, swaying slow.

“Crush” lit sparks beneath your skin,
You mouthed the words with that secret grin.
And when “One Sweet World” filled the sky,
Your hand found mine—we nearly cried.

After the show, the night still young,
We ordered pizza just for fun.
“Late Night Special, Room 203”—
But you pulled me in, wild and free.

Clothes in piles, your laugh in the air,
Dave still echoing everywhere.
The knock at the door—we didn’t hear,
Too wrapped in love, too lost, too near.

Later, breathless, a little dazed,
You stretched and smiled in a post-show haze.
“I think the pizza came and went…”
The scent in the hallway gave the hint.

Down the hall, a box was gone—
Room 205 with the TV on.
They scored the pie meant for our bed,
But we had something else instead.

Because dough gets cold and cheese can wait,
But passion never hesitates.
In Ames that night, we missed the slice—
But ****, the love… that tasted right.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

One Sweet Song

The road rolled out like a soft refrain,
Through fields and sky and summer rain.
You tapped the dash in perfect time,
Barefoot joy and rolling hills climb.

We chased the hum of strings and soul,
To Alpine Valley, heart and goal.
A roadtrip wrapped in songs we knew,
Just me, and love, and growing you.

The air was thick with dust and heat,
The kind of night that makes you weak.
We found our place beneath the stars,
The crowd like echoes from afar.

And then it played—our favorite one,
“One Sweet World” beneath the sun.
Your hand flew fast across your dress,
Your eyes lit up, your lips confessed:

“He moved—he kicked, he’s dancing too.”
I swear, the sky turned deeper blue.
A tiny foot, a beat, a flame,
In that moment, everything changed.

The music swelled, the lights went wide,
But all I saw was you inside—
Your glowing face, your breath held tight,
Our son alive beneath that night.

We stood still in that sacred swell,
Where love and sound and future dwell.
Dave sang on, the world felt small,
But inside us, it held it all.

One sweet world, one perfect start,
A song, a kick, a bursting heart.
That night will live where dreams begin—
The first time we heard him dance within.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Crash Into Us

We hit the road with hearts unplanned,
Old Jetta humming, hand in hand.
Tickets laying on the dash,
Dave was waiting, but so was Crash.

The sun stretched long across the land,
Cornfields waving like a band.
Your bare feet danced on weathered seats,
The rhythm deep, the moment sweet.

A dirt road turned where maps gave out,
No signs, no noise, no trace of doubt.
You looked at me with that slow smile—
The one that bends the world a while.

We pulled off where the silence swelled,
A thousand stalks, a secret held.
The door creaked wide, the gravel sighed,
You took my hand and pulled me wide.

There, between the rows of gold,
We lost our names, forgot the fold
Of time and clocks and who we were—
Just skin and sun and breath and stir.

Your dress rode up, the sky bowed down,
My lips found yours without a sound.
The earth beneath, the stars not far,
You were my song, my northern star.

No crowd, no lights, no stage or strings—
Just you, the field, and whispered things.
And when we finally drove away,
The sun gave in to end of day.

At Alpine, under bursting skies,
We swayed with tears in laughing eyes.
“Say Goodbye” cut through the air—
But we had nothing left to spare.

Because we made our own refrain,
Out there on that midwestern plain.
A road, a show, a golden field—
Where hearts were loud and nothing healed—
Because nothing had to. Love was real.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Just Us, Again

The sitter came, the bags were packed,
Our son in grandma’s care, relaxed.
We stepped away from daily grind,
To find what time can never blind.

Dinner buzzed with old delight,
Drinks and touches, candlelight.
Your laugh—a sound I’d chase for years,
Still soft, still cutting through my fears.

Back at the room, your look was fire,
Not rushed, but slow with deep desire.
You disappeared behind the door—
Then reappeared, and I stared.

Lace hugged every curve just right,
A quiet storm in dim hotel light.
Black silk, bare skin, and steady eyes,
You were art beneath moonlit skies.

No words—just hands, just breath, just you,
Familiar, yes, but wholly new.
We moved like people who had lived,
And knew how much the moment gives.

Not frantic youth, not wild and fast,
But something built, something that lasts.
A rhythm slow, a pulse in tune,
A sacred song beneath the moon.

Later, tangled, skin to skin,
You whisper, “Let’s do it again.”
And I know—no matter how days bend,
We’re lovers first, until the end.

One night away from all the noise,
Just us, no toys, no cries, no chores—
Just lace and heat, and love well-worn,
Still blazing hot, still being born.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Summer Cut

The sun hangs low, a golden sigh,
As dusk rolls in across the sky.
We’re side by side in evening’s hum,
The mower growls, the constant drum.

You push the line with steady grace,
Sweat like diamonds on your face.
That tank top clings in all the right ways—
I pause my task, caught in a daze.

Your hips, the sway, the strength, the fire—
Even in work, you spark desire.
Each pass you make, each blade you bend,
Turns labor into sweet pretend.

I watch from far, heart in a race,
Wanting more than just this space.
Your body glows in fading light—
You, the heat, this perfect night.

We finish slow, the yard laid bare,
Your fingers pulling loose your hair.
You glance at me with that old spark—
And just like that, I lose the dark.

The hose runs cold, but the shower waits—
Steam will rise, as passion wakes.
Hands will find familiar skin,
And what we start out here, begins within.

The grass is done, the stars climb high—
But darling, it’s your moan, not the sky,
That I’ll replay when day is through—
You, the night, and all we do.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

Miles of Grit

Before the dawn, I rise and ride,
Legs like stone, lungs stretched wide.
Gravel roads become my prayer,
Spinning through pain, gasping air.

Unbound waits—one hundred miles,
Through Kansas dust and brutal trials.
Each climb I face, each breath I take,
Is built on choices others break.

I’ve trained through storms, through aching bone,
Pushed past the doubt when I felt alone.
Skipped birthdays, dinners, bedtime songs—
Chasing this dream for far too long.

But guilt, it rides my back some days,
When pedals steal the time that stays.
My family waits while I chase more,
Yet still they meet me at the door.

And then—the race.
Heat and grit beneath the sky,
Mile after mile, I wonder why.
Cramped legs scream, the wind cuts deep,
I think of every night I lost sleep.

But near the end—I see them there,
My son,  my love, their arms in air.
Cheering loud with muddy pride,
As tears break loose I’ve tried to hide.

This isn’t just about the ride.
It’s every moment I almost cried.
It’s every hill, each stubborn scar,
And all the hearts who brought me far.

The finish line—just gravel and paint,
But it holds the weight of what I ain’t:
A quitter. A shadow. A halfway flame—
No. I burned through every claim.

Proud not just of what I did,
But of the ones who let me live
This wild, relentless, grinding dream—
Together strong. A human team.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

From Afar, But Never Away

I can’t sit beside you in the dark,
Can’t pass a flask or light the spark.
But I hear the tremble in your voice—
The silence thick beneath your choice.

Miles stretch like old campaign roads,
But I carry part of all your loads.
You text at two—I always read,
A lifeline born of shared old need.

You don’t have to say what haunts your nights,
I’ve seen the same uneven fights.
The kind that follow you home in dreams,
Where nothing’s ever what it seems.

From a distance, I steady your hand,
No medals, just a promise that I’ll stand.
Across the states, through static lines,
I send my words like warning signs.

“You’re not alone,” isn’t just a phrase,
It’s something we prove through foggy days.
Through calls, through chats, through every cry,
We fight the urge to say goodbye.

Because you matter—still, today.
Even if the war won’t go away.
And if I can’t be in your space,
Know this: I’m with you, just in place.

So if your weight gets too much to bear,
Text me. Call me. I’ll be there.
From afar, but never gone—
Brother, sister, we march on.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Ole, the Goodest Boy”

We brought you home in a blur of gold,
A ball of fluff with eyes so bold.
You tumbled in, all paws and grace,
And filled the quiet with your pace.

We named you Ole, soft and sweet,
With clumsy steps and dancing feet.
A leash, some treats, a training plan—
We shaped your world with gentle hands.

Together we learned sit and stay,
And how to chase the fear away.
We wiped your paws, you stole our socks,
And greeted dawn with barks and walks.

The kids would cheer, you’d wag so proud,
Your ears a-flop, your bark so loud.
You weren’t just ours—you quickly knew,
You had a bigger job to do.

Through months of work, we watched you grow,
With vests and tests and healing slow.
You learned to listen, calm, and wait,
To walk through every heavy gate.

And when you passed that final test,
We cried and laughed—we knew the rest:
You’d be a light for those in pain,
A soft reminder through the rain.

Now Ole walks with heart so wide,
A gentle soul right by our side.
A doodle dog with purpose clear,
Bringing hope and wiping tears.

So proud are we, this family three,
To see what love and work can be.
A golden heart, a friend so true—
Dear Ole, we believe in you.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

After the War, the Work

You came home not to silence—
but to sirens in your sleep.
Not to parades or picnics,
but to nights too dark, too deep.

The fourth of July felt like mortar rounds—
I held you as you hit the ground.
Neighbors smiled, lit fuses bright,
but I saw the panic flood your sight.

No one told them the war comes home.
That heroes flinch when fireworks groan.
That strength sometimes means shaking hands,
and needing help just to stand.

You tried to teach again—
chalk instead of chains,
kids’ laughter instead of drills,
but they sent you packing all the same.

Said “contract’s done,”
like your worth could expire.
But I’ve seen you walk through fire.
You don’t fold—you rise higher.

We fought back, side by side—
me, your shadow, your anchor, your guide.
Letters, calls, protests made—
we turned quiet pain into loud crusade.

And you stood there—tired, proud,
in front of that cold, gray crowd.
Not with rage, but steady breath,
proof that healing isn’t death.

I hold you close when sleep won’t come,
when thunder rolls and hearts go numb.
You were a soldier, still are to me—
in classrooms, in courtrooms,
in therapy.

The war is over, they like to say,
but I see it in you every day.
And still—you teach, you fight, you try.
My warrior in the softest light.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

The Space Between Sand and Skin

You kissed me in camo beneath morning light,
Orders in hand, boots laced up tight—
New ring still warm on your finger’s grace,
Gone too soon, with fire on your face.

You left for a land of endless dust,
While I stayed back with memory’s rust.
The house is haunted not by ghosts,
But echoes of what I feared the most.

Your scent on sheets, your laugh in rooms,
Wake the war drums, old perfume—
I tried to bury all that hell,
But love like yours became the shell.

Nights drag slow through sleepless fights,
Flashbacks lit by bathroom lights.
I count each breath, I grip the floor,
Then whisper your name like a whispered war.

But God—when you’re back for those fleeting weeks,
No words, just skin, no need to speak.
You crash into me like the ocean’s roar,
I drown in you, beg, and ask for more.

Your body—battle-hardened, bold—
Takes me places I used to hold.
In that heat, we shed the weight,
Of every bomb, every twist of fate.

Then gone again—you disappear—
And I’m left clutching what feels like fear.
But this time love is my parade,
And in its arms, I’m less afraid.

Come back to me, my fire, my flame—
Each day I wait, I whisper your name.
You wear the uniform, I wear the scars,
But we still meet beneath the stars.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

You Wanted This

You wanted this.
Not the tears, not the silence—
but the ending.
The open door.
The echo of footsteps leaving.
And for a while,
I stayed standing in the ruins,
still setting a place for you at a table
you’d already abandoned.

I begged the past to answer.
I folded memories like laundry,
hoping they’d still fit.
But love doesn’t live in a house
where one person’s already gone.

I didn’t break us.
You just stopped building.
Stopped reaching.
And I wore the weight of it,
thinking if I loved hard enough,
you might feel it again.
You didn’t.

And that’s okay now.
Because I finally see it—
freedom wearing my own name,
a sunrise that doesn’t ask your permission
to rise.

You wanted this.
And now,
so do I.

Not because I stopped loving,
but because I started living
without waiting
for you to come back.

You can keep the silence.
I’ll take the peace.
You can have the past—
I’m making room
for something that stays.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Something Beautiful After

I didn’t expect to want again. Touch had become a memory, a ghost I nodded to in passing—familiar, but too far.

Then you walked in like a secret I didn’t know I was still allowed to want. Not loud. Not demanding. Just sure.

Your hands didn’t ask questions—they knew answers. Like they’d waited their whole life
to map this skin I’d buried under silence.

You kissed me like it wasn’t a reward, but a right—like you’d earned it just by seeing me
and staying.
Staying when I trembled.
Staying when I burned.

This isn’t a rebound.
This is a rise.

There’s something holy in how you undress me—not just my body, but the layers I kept hidden even from myself.

With you, it isn’t just passion—it’s permission.

To want.
To ache.
To feel everything again.
Lips like an offering.
Fingers like truth.
Breathless doesn’t mean broken anymore.

You don’t heal me—you remind me I’m already healing. That I’m not ruined, I’m ripe.

And now—now I know the difference between being needed and being wanted.
And God, you want me. Like fire wants air. Like night wants skin. Like I want you—with everything I was once afraid to give.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

A Cell for Love

I wrote a message late one night—
Not hate, not rage, just one last plea.
A heart too full, a soul mid-flight,
Still holding on to what we’d be.

But law saw threat where I meant grace,
And cold steel slammed across my name.
I landed in the darkest place,
Branded by a lover’s shame.

Beside me, mur der wore a grin,
And ra pe had eyes like hollow graves.
And here I sat with trembling skin,
A man who only tried to save.

I wasn’t perfect, never claimed,
But I believed in what we had.
In vows and tears and midnight talks,
In fighting through the good and bad.

You asked for space—I gave too late.
You drew the line—I crossed in hope.
I didn’t know love could equate
To cuffs, to bars, to twisted rope.

They said, “You violated law,”
And maybe, yes, that’s what it seems.
But all I did was speak of love—
Of shattered hearts and broken dreams.

How did “I miss you” turn to chains?
How did “Please talk” become a crime?
I wasn’t stalking, wasn’t cruel—
Just stuck inside our ruined time.

And now I sit among the worst,
Men who’ve stolen breath and light.
I whispered love, and now I’m cursed
To dream of you through endless night.

I should have listened, should have known
That silence meant a needed wall.
But grief can beg when left alone—
And hope is stubborn when we fall.

So here I write from this cold floor,
Still reeling from the cost of care.
You’re gone, the door is locked once more,
And love became my cross to bear.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

More Than Enough

I see you when you think I don’t—
When shame creeps in between each bite.
When food becomes a kind of shield,
A way to feel just something right.

I hear the silence after meals,
The self-blame soft beneath your breath.
You smile through it, but I can feel
The ache that lingers underneath.

It’s not about the food alone—
It’s comfort, pain, escape, regret.
It’s every wound you’ve never named,
And every need you’ve never met.

And I won’t shame the way you cope,
Or say you’re weak, or make you hide.
I know how loud the darkness speaks
When you’re alone with what’s inside.

I’m not here to count or fix—
I’m here to see and stay and care.
To hold you when the numbness hits,
To love you through the wear and tear.

You are not broken by your hunger,
Not unworthy when you fall.
You are human, needing healing—
And you don’t have to have it all.

Let’s talk when you are ready, love.
Or sit in quiet if that’s best.
Let’s cry, or laugh, or walk, or rest—
Together, not a single test.

You don’t have to earn this love.
It isn’t measured, weighed, or scored.
You are more than all your battles.
You are someone I adore.

So when it hurts, and when it swells—
The craving, guilt, the heavy air—
Just take my hand, and breathe again.
You’re not alone. I’m always there.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

More Alike Than We Knew

We once burned like wildfire caught,
No hesitation, second thought.
We built a world in gasps and skin,
A sacred place we both fit in.

Before the war, before the grief,
Before the silence stole belief—
We lived like nothing could divide
The way your soul once moved with mine.

But then the war pulled you away,
And I stood still while skies turned gray.
When you came back, you weren’t the same—
And neither was I, if I’m being plain.

I wore a uniform too long,
And braved the frontlines, stayed strong.
But still, the dust stayed in my chest,
Long after I was told to rest.

Then came the bridge, the twisted steel,
The weight of death I couldn’t heal.
The sirens, smoke, the eerie screams—
They still show up inside my dreams.

And COVID took the last of me—
The halls of death, the constant plea.
Masked and moving, heart on fire,
Another loss, another pyre.

You had your ghosts—I had mine too,
But we both thought we had no clue.
We passed like strangers in one space,
Each hiding panic in our face.

I thought you’d shut the door on me.
You thought I needed to be free.
But truth is, love—we both withdrew,
And we were more alike than we ever knew.

I swallowed pain, you turned away.
Both thinking, “They don’t want to stay.”
But every time we didn’t speak,
We built the wall another week.

We made love soft, then not at all.
You blamed the world. I blamed the wall.
But deep beneath the days we lost,
We never stopped. We just paid the cost.

We could have fixed it, if we dared—
To say we broke, to say we cared.
To hold each other past the pride,
And cry for what we kept inside.

But trauma doesn’t knock or ask,
It buries truth behind a mask.
And though we both were bleeding through,
We never said, “I see you too.”

Still, I remember how you burned,
And how my hands to you returned.
And somewhere deep, I know it’s true:
I was more like you…
And you were more like me too.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

The Weight I Carry (And What It Costs)

The past is not behind me—
It walks beside me still.
It speaks in quiet moments
And bends me to its will.

It lingers in the sterile light,
It echoes in the hum
Of monitors and whispered prayers
When hope is all but gone.

The present isn’t softer—
It pulses through the pain
Of patients breaking in my hands,
Of lives I can’t sustain.

But I know how to sit with fear,
I’ve breathed through it for years.
I’ve felt the dark press on my chest
And fought back drowning tears.

PTSD has marked my soul,
But made me sharp and kind.
I see the wounds behind the words
That others never find.

In scrubs, I’m strong, I speak with calm,
I know just what to do.
At work, I give what’s left of me
To help someone pull through.

But when I cross the threshold home,
The weight becomes too loud.
The walls expect a gentler me
Than what I’m still allowed.

The stress I never fully name,
It follows me inside.
And suddenly, the smallest things
Feel like a wave, a tide.

I’m not as soft, I’m not as still,
I shut down when you speak.
I’ve run dry from giving all day—
There’s nothing left to leak.

And though I love with all I am,
Some nights, I disappear.
Not into war zones far away,
But right beside you here.

So if I seem a world away,
Or cold when I come home—
Know it’s not you I push against,
Just the silence I’ve outgrown.

The past still lives inside my bones,
The present takes its toll.
But loving you and healing too—
It’s both my wound and goal.

And all I ask is that you see
The fight behind the face.
I’m learning how to carry less,
And come back to this place.

So hold me when the light runs low,
Remind me love is near—
That even when I give too much,
There’s still room to be here.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Still, With You (The Family We Grew)

We are not mirrors, you and I—
I chase the stars, you watch the sky.
I dream out loud, you hold things tight,
And still we make it through the night.

Your laughter fills a crowded room,
I find my peace beneath the moon.
You need the noise, I crave the still—
And yet, we walk this road with will.

We’ve shouted, cried, then softly swayed,
But never once let love decay.
Our corners sharp, our angles new—
And still, I’ve always chosen you.

Through seasons passing, fast and slow,
We built a world where roots could grow.
With tired hands and hopeful eyes,
We raised our hearts into the skies.

The sleepless nights, the sticky floors,
The little shoes behind the doors.
The scraped-up knees, the birthday cheers,
The quiet talks across the years.

I taught him fire, you taught him rest—
Between us, he became their best.
He learned that love’s not always smooth,
But in the cracks, it finds its truth.

Now silver lines your softer face,
And still you move with stubborn grace.
We may not see the world the same,
But side by side, we played this game.

And when they ask us how we knew
To hold on tight and make it through,
We’ll say, “We grew, and bent, and stayed—
And loved through all the mess we made.”

So bring your storm, I’ll bring my ground,
In every clash, we still are found.
For all we’ve built, and all we do—
I’d grow old, again, with only you.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

I Didn’t Mean To

I didn’t mean to dim your light,
To turn our mornings into night.
The shadows followed me back home—
From places I had walked alone.

The war is over, they all said,
But not the noise inside my head.
The drills, the dread, the sharp commands—
Still echo loud in quiet lands.

You held me when I couldn’t speak,
When sleep was shallow, dreams were bleak.
I didn’t know how deep you’d bend,
To be a lover and a friend.

I didn’t mean to build a wall,
To vanish when you’d start to call.
I thought that strength was staying still,
But strength, I’ve learned, is choosing will.

You saw the fractures in my chest,
Still pressed your hand and called it blessed.
You never asked me to forget—
Just not to live inside regret.

And now, with you, I see a door—
A space where pain can hurt no more.
Not by pretending it’s not real,
But by the grace of how we heal.

So take my hand, if you’ll still stay,
And walk beside me, not away.
I won’t get better in a breath—
But love, with you, I fight back death.

No perfect words, no flawless grace—
Just shared resolve in this small space.
I never meant to make you ache—
But now I know, we both can break…
And still come back, for each other’s sake.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

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’d 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 soft, 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.