"New year, new me,"
a mantra whispered into the dark,
as if the stroke of midnight
can wipe clean the etchings
of who we were at 11:59.

We wear the weight of traditions
like party hats—
countdowns, clinking glasses,
resolutions scrawled on napkins,
as though promises made in the haze of champagne
carry more truth.

At midnight, the world holds its breath,
waiting for the shift,
for time to absolve us.
But the seconds press on,
steady, indifferent,
while we convince ourselves
that this time it will be different.

Tomorrow, the confetti will settle.
The mirror will reflect the same face.
Yet somewhere in the flicker of a sparkler,
or the echo of laughter,
is the hope that pretending
might someday make it real.

They talk in circles, tight and neat.
Each word a chord, each step a beat.
I match their tone, I fake their flair,
I become a hollow shell to fill the air.

They smile in sync, they laugh in rows,
and I contort where their flow goes.
A single slip, a stumble shown,
could leave me standing all alone.

I change my voice, adjust my pace,
erase my quirks, redraw my face.
They shape the mold; I squeeze inside;
my true self shoved and cast aside.

Their rules are riddles, quick to switch;
a word too poor, a joke too rich,
and suddenly, the air turns cold.
Acceptance slips; I lose my hold, because conformity's a ...

But now I see the endless grind,
a race to please, a cage for minds.
Why chase a place I'll never claim,
when I can stand and own my name?

No more I'll bend, no more I'll try
to fold myself for every eye.
I'll stand apart, no crowd to please;
I'll claim my space, I'll find my peace.

Today, I'd like to take a journey
and if you'll allow me, I'd like to take you with.
But don't pack much.
Just bring someone you love.
Go ahead, grab them, I'll wait.
If they're not near, find a photo,
a voicemail, a sweater they wore.
Hold them in your arms
in your mind
however you can;
as if they could vanish when you blink.

Let's walk awhile
through questions we rarely dare to ask

Tell me:
if science offered you a perfect clone
of the one you loved most,
same laugh, same eyes,
same habit of laughing at your jokes, even when they aren't funny
would you say yes?
Or would you find comfort
in their imperfections being unrepeatable?
Do they have any imperfections?

If you and your loved one had one final day:
no illness, no warning,
just 24 hours gifted to the two of you
how would you spend it?
Would you dance in the rain like its a movie?
Would you say things out loud
that your heart's been whispering for years?
Would you smile, laugh, cry, yell?

And tell me:
have you studied their face lately;
like a sky about to lose its stars as the sun peeks over the horizon?
Do you remember the first moment
you knew they were your favorite word
in a language you thought you'd forgotten?

We tend to wait for grief to ask these questions for us
when the voice is gone, the phone is quiet
the sweater is folded in a drawer like a secret tucked away.
But what if we asked now
while we can still kiss the answers?

So,
before this poem ends,
before you scroll,
before time wins its race,
hold them,
call them,
love them,

Tell them the things you'd regret never getting to say.
Watch how their eyes answer you.
Notice how lucky you are
to have someone
worth asking these questions for.

The wind carries embers,
whispers charred secrets,
and the tree bends—not from age,
but from a scream that’s always been there.
Do you hear it now?
A hollow cry in the brittle leaves,
a crack in the marrow of the bark,
the language of wildfire—
cruel, ancient, endless.

Once,
her roots were drunk on fog,
her branches heavy with sunlit mornings.
Now,
the air tastes of smoke,
ash settles in her veins,
her shadow flickers,
a ghost against an orange sky.

They say the fire speaks—
greedy, ravenous.
But the tree,
the Cali tree,
screams instead.
Screams for her sisters who turned to smoke,
screams for the nests that fell as sparks,
screams for the soil, now burned and bare,
too tired to cradle new life.

Once,
flames were a dance:
brief, beautiful,
a way to start anew.
But now they are monsters,
growing hungrier,
louder,
every year.

The scream spirals into the valleys,
up the hills,
over the rooftops.
It cracks open the silence of dry creek beds,
splits the night sky,
and still, we pretend we do not hear.

She leans toward the wind and wails:
“Do you know why?”

The answer is in the sparks of powerlines,
the parched rivers,
the forests gone brittle with thirst.
It is in the blackened skeletons of redwoods,
the sunsets stained with sorrow.

One day,
her scream will fade—
too quiet to hear,
too heavy to carry.
But for now,
she stands in the ash,
her roots smoldering,
her branches trembling.

And I listen.

(Three voices, one truth)

I

You laugh like silver bells,
(Or is it a siren's call?)
You hold the door with grace,
(Or push them down the hall?)
They call you cruel, a storm of spite—
But I see sunlight.
You remember little things,
ask about my day,
make me feel like I matter.
(Do they not matter? Do they not exist?)

They

We whisper, we warn—
(You never listen.)
We've seen the mask slip,
(You never glisten.)
A shadow moves beneath your praise,
But you still chase.
We’ve watched you excuse, rewrite,
pretend you didn’t see.
What will it take?
(Does it have to happen to you?)

You

I am the sum of all they see,
(Yet less than half of what I seem.)
I am the echo, sharp and sweet,
(A kindness dressed in quiet teeth.)
Do I love, or do I take?
It’s not my choice—
(It’s yours to make.)
And you have made it.
Again and again.
So why ask what I am,
when you've already answered?

Conflict

They carve your name into curses
You wear their spite like silk
I stand at the altar of your shadow,
offering silence,
wondering if I am blessing a saint
or kneeling before a sinner.

I was a jigsaw
scattered,
shattered,
tossed
in the wind—
each piece crumbled under your fingers.

You carved your name
in every break,
laughing
as you chipped away.

Me, broken,
lost,
stumbling through the ruins
like a ghost who forgot
how to haunt.

But something happened
in the silence
in the stillness
after your words were echoes,
after your hands stopped touching me.

I found the parts
you left behind.
Not fragments,
not trash—
but light.

You broke me,
and I broke too,
but I’m not fractured,
no.

I’m reborn,
from the cuts
you left
to the curve of my smile now
sharp,
fierce,
like glass.

You thought you destroyed me,
but I wear the wreckage like armor.
Handsome?
No.
I am more than that.
I am a fire
that burns
and never dies.

They call it a temple of knowledge and thought,
A place where young minds are carefully taught.
But what is the lesson? What is the rule?
That learning doesn’t happen at my school.

The classroom’s a stage, the script is rehearsed,
Yet passion is absent—just boredom dispersed.
The teacher recites, but they barely engage,
Tenure protects them, and they never must change.

I ask, Why do I need to memorize this?
They smirk and respond, Because it’s on the quiz.
Centuries of knowledge forced into my head,
But not a **** skill for the life I will tread.

They pile on homework, assignments unceasing,
Stealing my time; my patience decreasing.
It teaches me nothing but how to endure,
A childhood lost—stolen, for sure

They claim to be guides, but barely take part,
More focused on grading than igniting a spark.
If I miss one step, if I fail one test,
I’m labeled as lazy, as less than the best.

Straight A’s mean success, so I play their game,
But knowledge? Oh, no—that's not why I came.
I memorize, cram, then let it all go,
The second the test ends? ****...

I don’t know.

They call us the future, yet chain us to past,
Force us through molds, though none of us last.
We learn to obey, to raise our hand high,
To follow directions— but to never ask why?

For school isn’t built for learners like me,
It’s made for compliance, for mindless decree.
I’m forced to sit here and play through my role
Because learning simply doesn’t happen at my school.