Awakening

I built my walls from quiet pain,
Stone by stone, through fire and rain—
A soldier first, but still a man,
Holding weight no heart could stand.

In jungle hush and shadowed glen,
I watched the worst of what we can.
Guatemala carved its name
In places I could never name.

I carried blame like sacred fire,
As if I’d lit the funeral pyre.
Though orders rang and chaos reigned,
I wore the guilt, I claimed the stain.

I feared the monster in my skin,
Not from without—but deep within.
To guard the ones I loved the most,
I made myself a haunted ghost.

But time—unyielding, slow, and kind—
Kept whispering that I might find
That wounds once again buried in the sand
Could one day bloom if touched by hand.

And so I cracked, I let it break,
The dam I built to stop the ache.
And in the flood, I found a spark—
Not all I am is forged in dark.

The world grew new beneath my gaze,
A softer truth, a warmer blaze.
I saw the child beneath the gun,
The man who longed to feel the sun.

The blood was never mine to claim,
The acts, though witnessed, weren’t my name.
And though the past can never fade,
It doesn’t own the life I’ve made.

Now I emerge, no longer small,
Beyond the shelter of my wall.
I show the world, I show me too,
The soul I always somehow knew.

Not just a soldier with regret,
But someone rising stronger yet—
Not perfect, but at last, set free,
To live, to love, and finally be.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

The Foundation We Build

Beneath new beams and fresh-cut pine,
In the hush of evening’s slowing time,
We shape a space with care-worn hands—
A daughter’s dream, a life’s new plan.

My son-in-law, with steady grace,
Beside me in that shadowed place.
We lift and frame, we brace and bend,
Not just a room—but means to end.

My father’s voice, still calm, still wise,
Echoes through sawdust-scented skies.
Three generations, hearts as one,
Driving nails until it’s done.

There’s laughter echoing off the studs,
And plans sketched out in drywall dust.
Each hammer’s swing, each nail we drive,
Another way we keep love alive.

And yet, amid the joy and sweat,
There lies a quiet, soft regret.
A space beside me not yet filled,
A longing that won’t quite be stilled.

I wish my son could see this too,
And feel the pride in what we do.
To pass this torch, to share this bond,
To build a life he’s proud beyond.

And someone else—I feel the lack,
A presence missed, a voice held back.
To share the dusk, the ride, the road,
To lighten up this blessed load.

For family’s more than blood or name,
It’s showing up through joy and strain.
It’s knowing love in tired hands,
And finding peace in shared demands.

And when the stars begin to show,
And quiet calls me home to go,
The country roads stretch soft and wide,
With sunset bleeding on each side.

My body aches, my spirit soars—
For in these nights and through these chores,
I’ve come to see what matters most:
Not walls, not tools, but who we host.

A future built with sweat and care,
With love poured out in each repair.
And in that basement, warm and bright,
Lives not just shelter—but their light.

To give, to build, to stand beside,
To share the load, to swell with pride—
I know now what family means:
It’s not the house, but all the scenes

Of working late and driving slow,
Of quiet peace when day lets go.
Of building futures, hand in hand—
On sacred, sawdust-covered land.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Built for the Fire (more than ever)

I could stay numb.
I know how.
I’ve done it—
sat in the quiet aftermath,
let the weight of loss press me still.

It’s safe there,
in the ache that asks nothing.
No risk,
no rejection,
no reminders of what we once had.

But I wasn’t built for numb.

I was built for heat,
for tongue and lip against skin,
for tangled sheets and laughter
that opens something holy inside.
For conversation that strips the armor
and hands that say
you’re not alone here.

So no—
I won’t shrink.
I won’t hide behind the ruin.

I want love again.
Not the edited kind—
not filtered, polite, or halfway.
I want the messy, honest kind,
the kind that sees me, stays, and builds.

I want closeness that burns with truth,
touch that doesn’t just touch skin,
but says something deeper,
says you matter. You’re real. I’m here.

I want to risk it all again—
not because I forget the pain,
but because I remember the feeling.
What it’s like to be alive in someone’s arms.
What it’s like to look across the room
and know: this moment, right now, is everything.

Yes, I’ve been hurt.
Yes, the loss nearly wrecked me.
But I refuse to stay frozen.

It’s human to want love.
To crave the sacred electricity
of closeness, of presence,
of hands and lips and hearts saying
let’s try again.

So if I love again—
and I will—
it will be fully,
boldly,
fiercely.

Because even after all I’ve seen,
I still believe:
there’s nothing braver
than choosing love
when you know exactly
what it can cost—
and you do it anyway.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved