I shouted up with trembling fists,
"Tell me, stars, why do I exist!
How do I shine? How do I last?
How do I burn into the past?"

I’m small—too small to make a mark,
a flick of dust beneath your dark.
But still I scream: “How do I rise?
How do I echo through your skies?”

The universe blinked, slow and wide,
and let the silence stretch and slide.
Then clouds rolled in and whispered low,
"Ask the rain what it longs to know."

The rain replied through windowpane,
“I fall, I vanish, then rise again.
Not all are built to carve in stone
some change the world by being unknown.”

I yelled, “But I want crowds and cheers!
I want my name in future years!
I want to matter—more than breath!
I want a voice that fights off death!”

The stars looked down with silver sighs,
"Ask the sky what fills her eyes.
Ask the dusk, the sea, the pine
they’re old, and wiser still than all time."

The wind blew past with tangled grace,
“You’re not remembered for your face.
Not for your name, or shine, or shout
but what you gave when no one found out.”

I slumped beneath a restless moon,
demanding, “Tell me something soon!
How do I matter, small and loud,
beneath your stars, beneath your cloud?”

The universe did not explain.
It wept in dew. It breathed in rain.
And through the hush, the silence spoke:
"To be the fire, you feed the smoke.

To be the name, you live the vow.
To matter then—you matter now.
Not for applause, but what you give
in how you love, and how you live."

So here I stand, still small, still bright,
still yelling questions into night.
And if no answer ever comes
I'll burn like stars whose names are none.

Until the day of mine has come .

I never learned the rules they made —
the apps, the games, the masquerade.
I tried them once, they felt too loud,
like chasing something through a crowd.

I’ve had my nights, I’ve played my part,
but none of it could reach my heart.
I want something that doesn’t fade —
but not the way it’s now portrayed.

I’m not online, I stepped aside.
Not hiding — just not in the tide.
I don’t perform. I don’t compete.
But that’s how people seem to meet.

They match, they text, it moves so fast —
like every moment’s built to pass.
And while I watch it come and go,
I wonder where the slow hearts go.

Where do they cross, where does it start,
when swipes replaced the human part?
I never learned to play the cut —
Which leaves me here. Now what?

something about the summer air
at 2 a.m.
just after it has rained

i can hear the earth drying
and the flowers going to sleep
or are they waking up?
it is a special kind of quiet
except for the crickets
and cicadas
and the laughter of friends
and couples
(like you and me)
walking home from the bar

the stars and the streetlights are irrelevant
because of the moon
that is painted in one million places -
held by drops of dew
resting on the cars in the lots

i feel the moons
tenderly leave their resting place
to join the fabric on the back of my shirt
i think your hands probably hold
some of them, too

and in this moment
i am thankful to share
my summer air
with you