I. Fracture (The Splintering)
Divorce in my eyes— not just of lovers,
but of trust split cleanly in two. It’s a quiet
betrayal, where belief in others fractures
like glass in morning frost. The break isn't loud—
It’s slow, and it lingers like silence in a room
that once held laughter.
____________

II. Hope (The Gaze Upward)
Still, beneath the applause of stars,
I offer my belief in myself— a trembling gift
to their gleaming, ancient eyes. May my resilience
Be a constellation they name, not out of pity,
but awe. I crave mesmerizing remarks, spoken with
love—not just spoken of love— if only they knew
how to spell the word without misspelling it in action.
____________

III. Dust (The Reckoning)
Like mystic dust on the untouched virtues of time,
I’ve seen dreams— soiled, scattered, folded into
the pockets of regret. Not just mine. Many.
The world has walked through the fields of hope
with muddy boots. And now, in my dirt eyes,
I carry the stains— not of sin, but of seeing too
much and still refusing to look away.

Each time that I look in your eyes,
A part of me quietly dies.

But I'd give even more,
For the love I adore—
You're my heart in a perfect disguise.

In the case of searching for the right man— is it really the right
man you're after, or just the right now kind? The good-time
lover. The temporary warmth. The one who shows up late, but
still makes you hope it wasn’t too late. Never mind how long it
takes— you’re just hoping you’ll be the one he takes.

And if you start to care, truly care, will the weight of his past rest
too heavy on your heart? Will it matter what he whispered into
someone else’s ear before whispering into yours? Would you
flinch knowing another ear was the trial run, and you’re just
the version he’s learning to hold better, running into his arms.

If his pride is armed like a gun— quick to shoot you down for
standing too close— if he can’t even see your reflection, like a
man wearing sunglasses indoors, would you still stay? Would
your cheeks burn too bright with blush, to see the red flags
waving in front of you?

I’ve been blinded like that before…by charm. By timing. By love,
that felt like truth but turned out to be dressed in denial.

Darling, you are the trail of salty cheeks and all the sin that reeks.
You cried after your very first kiss—the kind that tasted like lies,
the kind that convinced you it might last. But lust? Lust is just
deceit in disguise— a beautiful trick of the mouth. You tried to
overstep the world, but stubbed your toe against life’s edge,
pushing harder than you were ever meant to move. And still,
no matter how many nightmares rip through your sleep, the
bed stays soft. And indifferent.

You wrapped all your dreams in an old cloth, thinking maybe
passion—true passion—could burn hotter than any of them. Your
love is precious, nearly pure. But the purest intent rarely carries
you far. It only cuts deeper. And the purest scars are always the
ones left by trying to love right— and too hard.

The days vanish too quickly beneath passion’s flame. The lame
try to stand tall. The insomniac finds the courage to dream again.
And I— I wear my faith like a badge, only to have it thrown back
in my face.

Still, we do what we must. We put on that brave face. We face
the morning. We press on. Because that’s what love leaves behind—
something unfinished, something heavy, something we wear like
the skin on our face.

I am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames,
paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth
My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be
tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music
always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo,
a verse that never becomes a chorus.

I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses
itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs,
quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles;
paramount and omnipotent.

My tears are potent, but never that important – imported;
as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through
brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home.
No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle —
I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still,
I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without
a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing.

I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging
quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.

I am not my own strength – nor am I my own words
I am not the sum of silver, or rich as the world,
Nor even close to a sliver of gold.

I am not my future – or any better than my own past
I am all of my mistakes made in the present,
And all of the things, hoping to come to pass
Nowhere near a love that endures without question –
Nor the calm; being a life of many, many scars.

I am the quiet battles, that tears praise my triumphs,
The stillness in inner storms, battling emotional riots –
Marvel of flesh, fragile code; built of miracle science
Living in society’s endless bias, where the little
You hope to give, is the hope that will be trampled
Beneath the heels of Giants.

A faith that’s ALWAYS under intense heat
And so many pressures; pressed and refined,
I emerge as a Beautiful Diamond.

Take the time—don’t just spend it— to watch your grind,
These dreams are brewed, steeped behind these caffeine eyes.
Still, as the sunrise scripts its golden lines, my gaze still delays
Having to put on a daily mask; trapped in yesterday’s disguise.
All of these borrowed hours lace my breath, thinned and worn,
All these seconds spent on second-guessing myself; I’m torn—
Barely paying attention to obvious life lessons due in reflection;
Skipping those lessons, now I pay with life's collection.

As for facing my many regrets, it proves facing the glass—
But not all mirrors can clearly cut clean through the past.
Truths are warped, wrapped for the present, for who peer—
Peering in, fragile as much, cracked, and smeared with fear.
We search within ourselves, as all seekers must willingly do,
Searching for a love clear as glass — one that is sharp, and true.
As peach blossoms fall, and small stones roll, know: that through
The times of picking yourself up, some dust gets stuck on you.

The world isn’t so clear, especially if man’s clarity is uninvolved;
Profiting from all our scars – given titles hanging over ourselves
So many times, that prophets need to remind us of who we are
Profits, or prophets, but it all depends on who’s worth you trust.