"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.

The wind wails,
rattles the glass,
claws at the trees,
shakes the bones of the house.

Rain slams down,
rivers racing,
thunder grumbling,
lightning splitting the sky apart.

But here—

Flames flicker,
logs crack,
embers glow,
heat seeps into the floor.

Blankets pile,
heavy, soft,
tucking me in,
wrapping me whole.

Sweater sleeves,
loose and worn,
slip past my hands,
stretched by years of holding on.

A mug of cocoa,
steam curling,
scent of cinnamon,
warmth pressed to my lips.

The storm rages,
wind howls,
windows shudder—

But I am still.
Eyes droop,
fire whispers,
the night holds me close.

Breath deepens,
muscles loosen,
the weight of the day melts away,
and silence settles soft around me.

Fingers twitch once,
then rest,
the world outside growing quieter
as the warmth lulls me deeper.

The fire crackles,
soft as a sigh,
and sleep comes slow,
a quiet invitation
to drift into peace.

She is my peace
her arms my warmth
her smile my joy
her love, my home.

there is a place softer than sleep,
quieter than the hush between waves,
where i forget where my body stops
and yours starts—

your lap, your hands, your breath
braiding me into the moment
like a thread pulled through silk.

fingers slow, wandering, learning,
finding stories in my hair
that neither of us wrote
but both of us know.
the kind told without words,
only the hum of a thumb across my temple,
the rise and fall of a chest that is mine
and yours
and ours.

my cheek on your leg,
the fabric warm from you,
the world outside shrinking,
turning to nothing but the sound of you breathing,
the rhythm of us matching without trying,
without thinking,
like we were made to move in the same time.

i could spend lifetimes here,
in the space between your ribs,
the dip of your knee,
the cradle of your arms,
held like something precious,
held like something known.

and maybe that’s it.

not just the warmth, not just the weight,
not just the touch,
but the knowing—
that here,
like this,
i belong.

but i can never let you see this.
never let you read the way i dream of sinking into you,
the way my body aches not just to be close,
but to be wanted close.
to be held because you want to hold me,
not just because i fit into the space beside you.

if you knew—if you saw—
would you pull away?
would the space between us grow sharp,
like silence that means something different than it used to?

so i will press delete.
i will fold this feeling up small,
tuck it between the pages of my ribs,
and pray you never notice
the way i shiver when you touch me.

I don’t need a love that waits outside,
pacing hospital halls with excuses in hand.
I need someone who will sit beside me,
fingers laced through mine like stitches,
pulling me together where I unravel.

I don’t need a love that floats above,
watching from shore, calling me back.
I need someone who will drown with me,
trusting I will rise, trusting I will take them too,
because I have before. Because I will.

We were parallel lines, forever close,
never meant to touch—
until the moment you turned to me,
until I turned to you,
and suddenly, we crossed, suddenly, we changed.
Perpendicular. Colliding.

But love is cruel in the ways it saves.
The only way I knew to love you
was to give you silence. To give you peace.
And so, I did. I let you go,
not because I stopped loving you,
but because I never would.

She is the reason
I count the exits before I sit down.
3 windows, 2 doors, 4 friends to go talk to,
I fold myself small in crowded rooms.
I let my shadow walk ahead—
just in case she is waiting behind me.

She is the reason
my name sounds foreign in my own mouth.
It used to be mine,
warm, whole, sure.
Now it is just a noise I do not trust.
“Matthew” she’d call.

I hate hearing that sound

She—
(is the reason I mistake love for danger)
(is the reason I taste irony in "I miss you")
(is the reason I do not know how to love)

She is the reason
I flinch before I am touched.
I flinch before I am hurt.
I flinch before there is even a reason to.

A hug should be easy, not torture.

She is the reason I can’t say "no."
No is a match against gasoline breath.
No is a door ripped off its hinges.
No is a crime scene where I am the suspect.
(why did you make her so mad?)

She is the reason I smile when I am scared.
A trick I learned to survive.
A trick I cannot unlearn.
A trick that fools everyone,
even me.

—But she is not here.

Is she?
I tell myself she is gone,
but she is still the reason.

She is the reason I run.
She is the reason I stay.
She is the reason I am afraid to be loved,
and the reason I am terrified to be alone.

She is the reason.
And I hate that she still is.

I find myself falling (Again, Again, Again)
I do not mean to fall—
(but the ground keeps tilting beneath me.)
I do not mean to want—
(but the air is thick with something sweet, intoxicating.)
I do not mean to hope—
(but their laughter sounds like a promise.)

I meet a stranger / and suddenly / my heart is writing love letters in invisible ink.
I hear a voice / and suddenly / my ribs tighten like a corset, squeezing out logic.
I brush fingertips / and suddenly / I am rewriting the stars for a future that does not exist.

It happens too fast—
(like a storm that appears from a clear sky, no warning, no mercy.)
It happens too often—
(like déjà vu, like a carousel that never stops spinning.)
It happens without permission—
(like waking up in a dream you did not ask for.)

I do not love them—
(not really, not fully, not yet.)
But my heart does not understand the difference between a spark and a wildfire.

And so I burn.
And burn.
And burn.

Only to find myself—
(again, again, again)
sifting through the ashes.

c0de dr!ps, pixelated dreams—
echoes, lost? yes? no?
404 answers not f0und
&& the moon? fractured, spl!t,
mirrored in a cracked display.
Copy
   % stars flicker %  
       @ random()  
while (night) {  
    sleep = false;  
}  

--> footsteps... static... [redacted]
// who wrote this script?
* DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DECIPHER *
1nput: whispers( )
0utput: [???: unknown source]
Copy
| data.leaks  
| shadows.load  
| reality.corrupt( )
| death.static = imminent;...

It starts—soft,
a thread of sound unspooling in the dark,
a quiet pull at the edge of being.

Close your eyes.

A note bends, weightless,
stretching toward something unseen,
like light slipping through fingertips,
like breath you didn’t know you were holding.

And suddenly, you are drifting—
unbodied,
untethered,
rising through the hush between chords.

Strings shimmer like stardust beneath your skin.
A voice—half air, half ache—
opens like a doorway inside your chest.
The bass hums deep in your bones,
a second heartbeat, steady, certain.

Everything you are dissolves into melody,
into harmony,
into motion.

For a moment—just one—
the world forgets to weigh you down.

And you let go.

I wake up.
But I don’t really wake up, do I?
The bed feels like it’s holding me down—
like I’m trapped inside my own skin.
I think about moving,
but my body’s too tired to listen.
My bones ache.
My mind aches.
And I’m still here.
Stuck.

I run my hands through my hair,
but nothing changes.
The noise in my head keeps getting louder,
like it’s trying to drown me.
Every thought is a weight,
every breath a struggle.
I’m suffocating in a room full of air.

The world keeps moving.
People keep laughing,
but it’s like I’m behind a glass,
just watching—
always watching,
never a part of it.
I can’t reach it.
I can’t reach them.
I can’t reach myself.

Some days, I fake it.
I paint a smile on my face,
tell everyone, “I’m fine.”
But it’s a lie.
A lie I tell so often,
I don’t know how to stop.
The emptiness inside me is too big,
too loud,
but I don’t know how to say it,
so I say nothing.
I hide it behind a smile,
and hope no one sees
how broken I really am.

Other days, I don’t even try.
I don’t have the strength to pretend anymore.
The world feels too far away,
and I’m too tired to care.
Too tired to fight.
Too tired to get out of bed.
Too tired to even keep breathing.
I don’t know how to keep going when
everything feels so heavy,
so pointless,
so wrong.

The light fades—
it’s been fading for a while now.
I don’t remember when it stopped shining,
but I can feel the darkness creeping in.
It wraps around me like a second skin,
and I don’t know how to take it off.
I want to scream.
I want to shout,
but my voice feels broken.
It’s like I’m invisible,
like no one can hear me,
and the silence is deafening.

Everything is dark,
and I’m still here,
fighting to breathe,
fighting to feel anything at all,
but nothing changes.
And I don’t know how much longer I can stay here—
in this emptiness,
in this darkness.
I don’t know how to move,
but I don’t know how to stay still either.
I’m just... here.

It doesn’t ask for permission.
It doesn’t wait for the “right” time.
One moment, I’m fine—
laughing, talking,
doing what I’m supposed to do.
Then the wave hits,
and everything falls apart.
Suddenly,
I’m drowning in my own head.

Sitting with friends—
I’m laughing,
I’m talking,
but inside,
I’m screaming.
I’m so far away from them,
and they don’t even know.
I can’t hear their voices anymore.
I can’t even hear myself.
I’m just stuck—
alone in a room full of people.

At school,
it’s worse.
I try to focus on the words,
on the lessons,
but it’s like they’re not even real.
The paper in front of me is blank,
my thoughts are blank,
and my mind is a million miles away.
Everything spins,
and I can’t stop it.
The walls are closing in.
My chest feels tight.
But I’m still here.
I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.

Sitting at my desk,
the homework’s impossible.
The words blur.
The numbers make no sense.
I want to throw it all away,
but I can’t.
I want to scream,
but I can’t.
I want to run,
but my legs don’t work.
It’s like I’m stuck in cement,
and the whole world is just passing me by.

Sometimes it hits in the middle of a conversation.
I’m talking,
laughing,
but none of it matters.
The words sound empty.
The sounds are hollow.
I just want to disappear.
I just want to walk away,
but I can’t.
I can’t leave.
I can’t do anything.

It hits without warning—
at random,
and it hits hard.
One minute, I’m breathing.
The next, I’m sinking,
drowning in a darkness that has no name.
And I don’t know how to make it stop.
I don’t know how to breathe again.
I don’t know how to live
when every moment feels like I’m dying.

those are the options a boy is given at birth,
a choice between two evils—
for to be is to conform,
to choose the path of ignorance,
for to not be is to remove oneself,
to stray from the social norms,

To be is to blend,
to fade into a mass of faces that never ask questions,
to wear the uniform of comfort,
to follow the crowd without ever knowing why.
It’s to shut your eyes,
to smile and nod,
and pretend that you’ve figured it out
when the truth is you’re just drifting,
suspended in a current that leads nowhere.

But to not be—
to stand apart—
is to feel the weight of a world that cannot understand you.
It’s to be misunderstood,
labeled as lost or crazy,
but deep inside,
there’s a fire that refuses to be extinguished.
To not be is to question everything,
even your own reflection,
to challenge what is said to be true
and create your own truths,
even when it feels like you’re the only one who believes them.

And so the boy stands,
on the edge of these two choices,
each a path with its own promise,
its own cost.

To be is to live in a lie that everyone else accepts—
to wear a mask that fits just right,
but hides the person beneath.
To not be is to risk it all—
to tear away the mask,
to live in the rawness of truth,
to be exposed,
and to wonder if the world will ever be ready to see you as you are.

And so, the boy is left wondering
was he given two options at birth?
Or was the real choice always this—
to be neither,
to refuse the roles they've set before him,
and to create his own way,
somewhere between the lies and the isolation?

To decide not what the world tells him he must be,
but to question,
to carve out his own existence—
for, perhaps,
the answer lies in asking the question
again and again…
to be or not to be?

I. Left Arm
A hush in motion,
arms begin their arch —
like bridges bending
toward heartbeat harbors.
Hands become question marks,
asking: Are you real, too?

II. The Middle
Inhale meets inhale.
A spine leans into its echo.
This is not silence—
it is listening, still and warm.

III. Right Arm
Fingers finish the sentence.
Two bodies bracket a breath,
then exhale the same punctuation.mak
Let go. Not apart. Just wider.

A hug is not just arms around a body.
It’s the quiet agreement that you are here,
and I am here,
and in this small moment, we are not alone.

It is the architecture of presence—
built without blueprints,
rising from instinct,
constructed in silence.

A hug doesn’t ask questions.
It doesn’t require explanations.
It listens with skin,
responds with pressure,
and holds what cannot be spoken.

It can say “I missed you”
without syllables.
It can say “You’re safe,”
even when nothing else feels that way.

When the world is too loud,
a hug is the volume dial turned down.
When you’ve come undone,
a hug doesn’t try to fix—
it simply stays.

It can be the end of a long fight,
or the beginning of forgiveness.
It can remind you
what steady feels like,
what warm feels like,
what being wanted feels like.

And here’s the literal truth:
A hug slows the heart.
It lowers cortisol,
eases muscle tension,
and tells your nervous system
that you are not in danger.

A hug is a biological signal:
You matter.
You are not a threat.
You can rest now.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes to keep going.

Is a man to feel guilt for having options?
For liking multiple persons at once?
For not having the devotion to one,
that he feels he fails to have for any?

He asks himself this more than he’d like.
Not out loud. Just late at night,
when he’s replaying conversations
and trying to decide what his heart meant.

He likes them—really likes them.
Different people, in different ways.
One makes him laugh like no one else.
Another sees through him like glass.
A third makes him feel safe,
but he’s not sure if that’s love
or just comfort he doesn’t want to lose.

He wonders if there’s something wrong with him—
that he can feel so much
and still feel unsure.
That none of them, alone, feels like enough.
Or maybe he just isn’t ready to give
what they deserve.

He doesn’t want to lie.
He doesn’t want to lead anyone on.
But how do you tell someone,
“I care about you deeply… but not only you”
without sounding selfish, or cruel?

Sometimes, he thinks love should be simpler.
Pick one.
Hold on.
Commit.

But he’s not sure if that’s honesty or just pressure.
Not sure if he wants that, or just thinks he should.
And the guilt—it doesn’t come from doing wrong,
but from not knowing what right even is.

So he stays quiet,
hoping time will bring clarity.
Or courage.
Or maybe enough loss
to force a choice.

And sometimes,
he isn’t even sure if he actually likes them
or if it’s just a moment,
a look,
a need to feel something
that got mistaken for affection.

He keeps asking himself,
“Do I like this person,
or do I just like how they make me feel?”
“Is this a crush, or is it me filling a blank space?”
Some days he’s certain.
The next, not at all.

It’s not about playing games.
It’s not about wanting more.
It’s about wanting to be sure,
and never quite getting there.

He doesn’t want to lie.
He doesn’t want to lead anyone on.
But how do you tell someone,
“I care about you deeply… but I don’t know if it’s real”
without hurting them—or making them doubt everything?

He wishes there were a test.
A checklist.
Something objective to prove
what he feels is true.
Is that weak?
Maybe.
But he’s tired of pretending
that feelings follow rules.

A man sits alone,
the waves crashing
against his only support;
a 4 legged stool,
built solely to hold his skeleton-
but never built to bear the rest

the weight of his skin,
with every crash of the waves,
grew incrementally heavier,
until, the man, although supported by his stool
felt himself drowning
dragged by the water
into depths too dark to see the light above,

too weak to fight for the light above the ocean’s surface

A moment of calm
silence
still
he
i
alone
felt the waves
growing again ready to throw me back to despair

my 4 legged stool;
the only structure still holding me up
refused to let me drown
no matter how much i pleadingly screamed for the end
no matter how much i tried to give up
tried to drown
tried to escape

alone with the ocean
i find the value in the stool
she who keeps me afloat,
he who throws a buoy,
or teaches me to float

it is the stool with 4 legs that keeps us fighting against the ocean
so why is it that we tend to only think about our own 2?

to hold her is:

to stroll across a bridge in the midst of spring
where the cherry blossoms bloom
and their leaves are seen flitting
across the pond’s reflection

to feel the warm embrace of the suns rays
as they magnify the beauty of the
purple yellow and red
petunias daisies and roses
which lay at the waterbed

to breathe a sigh of relief
at the feeling of fresh air entering your lungs
and replacing the stale dust which once lay

to listen to the serene chirping of the birds
as they build their nests;
the rustling of a deer in the tall grass behind.

to hold her
is to know silence
not as emptiness or a punishment,
but as a gift.

I loved LA

I hated the campus
I hated the weather
I hated the hotel
I hated the drive
I hated the distance from home
I hated the judging, the scores, the results.

I hated LA
I hated LA so ******* much

yet

I loved LA

I loved the topic
I loved our rounds, our arguments, our performance
I loved the experience
I loved who I was there
I loved the new people i met, and the friends i spent time with

but more importantly,

I loved LA

getting to spend the weekend with her was a feeling beyond any other
having not to rely on fate to see her, to talk to her, to hold her, to love her
being able to wake up and know i'd spend the day with someone who cared,
listened,
comforted,
laughed,
loved.

I loved LA
and she taught me why they call it the city of angels

They ask, “How are you?” I say, “Good,”
as if one syllable could
undo the unravel,
as if calm were a place I could travel
just by saying so.

As if good meant whole.
Not hollow. Not holding. Not holes
in a voice note from days ago,
when goodnight meant don’t go,
and goodbye meant I already have.

See, “good” hides in the corners:
in tired good mornings sent across borders
where time zones tangle like limbs once did—
I say good,
but I never meant for this.

Good grief is grief in a Sunday suit.
A tidy way to name the mess.
A eulogy wearing perfume.
A fire dressed up like a candle.

We stretch it over pain
like bedsheets that don’t quite reach the edge.
We say it for comfort. We say it instead
of I’m lonely, or I’m losing,
or I’m learning to lie to myself gently.

There’s good in goodbye,
but only when you don’t look back.
There’s good in goodnight,
but only if you’re sleeping side by side.
There’s good in being good,
but only if no one asks too much.

So no—
I’m not good. I’m practiced.
I’m polished.
I’m passable at pretending.
But ask me again,
and I’ll still say it.
Because it’s easier than explaining
what "good" could never mean.

Hello ? hello ? hello ?
Anyone out there ? anyone out there ? there’s nobody out there.

This house doesn’t echo ‘cause it’s empty —
It echoes ‘cause I talk to the walls,
and they talk back
with everything my mother,
my father,
my brothers and sisters,
my friends,
and my lovers
never said.

You see, recently, I’ve been sleeping like I’m training for death,
my breathing’s been shallow,
my dreams have been hollow,
waking up just to forget
why I even went to bed… in the first place.

The silence claps, filling the room, — applause for my pain,
and I swear:
even my shadow’s been walking away.
My bed’s a grave I visit nightly,
only to wake up and
restitch my smile nice and tightly,
just so everyone can see
just how happy I can be.

The other day, I wrote a list of reasons to live —
ran out of ink after two.
Wrote “sunsets” and “maybe,”
then scratched 'em both through.
Every “I love you” I’ve heard
was a debt disguised,
a loan with interest
that never arrived.
For them, I know it was just empty breath:
no heart,
no soul,
no vow,
no truth.
Always less, and never more —
just echoes behind this closed door.
As they left me alone,
blindly deciding
it’d be okay for me to love myself
on my own.

They yelled out behind that door:
“Matt you’re not alone,”
“We’ll always be here for you!”
but no one ever knocked.
Only ghosts with names like Almost,
and clocks that tick and tock in Morse code
for stop.
Tick tick tick—
Tock.
And now even my watch
has begun to mock
the very bitterness…
that resides within these walls.

My chest’s a locked box
where light doesn’t get.
My thoughts?
Wet matches.
That can’t spark—
just create ash.
I choose not to water my plants
like I’m praying they die,
just so something else understands
what it feels like
to try
and try
and try
and still…
not be remembered.

I’ve screamed into the universe
like voicemail—
begging for anyone or anything
to give me the recognition I needed.
No return.
I lit myself on fire for warmth,
and watched
the cold not burn.
This ain’t poetry.
It’s my farewell in rehearsal,
a symphony of silence
in a one-man circle.

I don’t want to die.
I never wanted to,
and I never will.
But I can’t keep living like this—
half death,
half plea.
So when you hear this:
Don’t cry.
Don’t clap.
Just breathe.
Because that breath
represents more love
than I ever believed
was for me.

I only ever needed three things:
I. love. you.
You could have saved me.

'Twas but three years ago
I set my pen to sea, a vessel born
a fragile craft of ink and fervent flame
with compass cast in yearning, not in security

The waves lapped soft with secrets,
a few saddening,
fewer sweet.

Each line cast: a current pulling at my feet
no charts existed
no charts exist
for waters this deep nor wide
where poets dream,
struggle,
fight,
cry,
accept

and ancient myths
shared from one to the next
reside

The sky, a parchment vast with thousands of drifting stars
drew constellations shaped like hopeful scars

i
you
we,
search for love – the poet’s atlantis
a realm where whispered truths and passions flow


clouds
like veils
concealed what lay ahead
storms were born from longing
words went unsaid
crucial words
I chased reflections that danced on the waves
illusions
forged in the poet’s unforgiving mind

the siren’s song – a melody of doubt –
called me close
not once, but repeatedly
–
somewhere
I know
Janus smiles
–
called me close then took away my sound
took away my hearing, and my voice.
and what was it that was so alluring?
the shimmer? the glint? the gleam?
or just the ghost of a forgotten dream?

Ink dripped like rain upon my weathered scroll,
a log of my journeys,
a testament to my voyages,
each line, each stanza, each poem,
an ebb of the sea carrying me ever further on my path

There, at the ocean’s floor
lost in fragments,
scattered arrays —
a compass
broken,
fractured remnants

one night
tides of silence
waves of wait
the poet’s curse
the lover’s fate

until

a flash, a beacon–
love’s distant flame–
guided through tempest,
called my name.

–
still it glows
a lighthouse, for all ships
that pass
–

not all who wonder
sink or drown
not all condemned to be a poet,
a lover,
a feeler,
are left to fall
fall
fall
ever lower into the depths of the cold
dark
deep
waters.


Beneath the veil of night,
a whisper grew
a secret kept
only silence knew.
the heart, a vessel sailing starry seas
found shore where love’s soft voice
dissolved unease

no longer lost amid the waves and foam,
the poet’s quest
had brought him safely home
adorning not treasure, nor gold, nor gems
but a reason to put down the pen
a reason to discern
the clouds from the storm


I stepped onto sands
warm beneath my feet
where time and tides and two hearts
met

a poet’s journey
ended

for now, when he
causes the ink and parchment to embrace
once more
it is not for the same cause as once was
–
to express his discomfort,
drifting about on the waters:
his only support;
a 4 legged stool,
built solely to hold his skeleton-
but never built to bear the rest
–
but rather to express
the dilation of his pupils
as dawn approaches, and the
the morning spills like
honeyed gold;
a whispered warmth the
night can’t hold.



the ink now flows from calmer, steadier hands
the poet, now having resigned himself
to the discomfort of the ocean
finally lands.

–
She is my peace
her arms my warmth
her smile my joy
her love, my home.
--

Day One:
the pen slashes—
Twenty. Six. Orders.
ink, not thought,
bleeds across parchment.

Questions?
(there are none)

Eliminated:
trans lives,
under a banner stitched from lies—
“feminism,”
they call it.
What do they call the silence?

Borders tighten.
“Maximum vetting,”
he says,
as the doors close
on hope,
on freedom,
on futures.

A hand waves,
pardons fall
like confetti—
1,500 violent rioters
cheer in their wake.
The Capitol weeps,
its wounds still raw.



We pull back, pull away,
from the world’s hands:
WHO?
Paris?
No.
The globe spins colder
without us.

The camera stares:
his signature sprawls,
blind,
blank,
bereft of meaning.
“What is it?” he asks—
too late.

TikTok ticks
a delayed
doom.
A political ploy
Misunderstood by the masses.

Behind the curtain:
facades fracture,
truth whispers,
fear shouts.

A country waits,
chained to a pen
that scrawls without reason.
A nation watches,
As the ink dries into scars.

All in a day’s work.

the clock marks twelve with a
hollow chime.
in its wake, the air thickens, heavy
with absence.
shadows ripple across the walls,
shifting like thoughts half-formed,
dark and untethered.

the corner stretches, widens,
becomes something deeper,
a mouth that might swallow me
if i meet its gaze too long

the ceiling groans softly,
its beams contracting
as if under the weight
of something unseen.

i sit still, breathing shallow,
watching the shadows watch me,
and wonder if the clock
will ever strike one.