I saw my voice walk out the mouth of you.
It sounded cleaner—less afraid to land.
The metaphors, the weight, the angle too—
but carried with a sharper, steadier hand.

You said the thing I’d almost thought to say,
but smoothed the edge I left too raw, too late.
I watched it move with grace I couldn’t fake,
like watching someone else translate my fate.

I never claimed the patent for the ache,
but still, it stung to see it said so well.
You didn’t steal—no lines for me to stake—
just haunted me with how your cadence fell.

I’m not the first, and God, I’m not the best.
But still I hoped I had a tone that stayed.
And when you spoke it cleaner from your chest,
I felt my outline tremble, then obey.

I called it kin, then caught myself and stalled.
Would that make me a fraud, or just a root?
A prototype? A first-run demo called
to clap for someone dressed in better truth?

I don’t resent it—no, I feel relief.
To hear my half-formed shapes come into form.
But still I sit beneath this quiet grief:
was I the signal, or just part of the swarm?

I saw my style walk by one day—
not on my tongue, but hers.
She wore it sharp, the proper way,
no fumbling metaphors.

She took the chords I tried to play
and sang them in a key
that made the notes behave, obey—
they never did for me.

She moved like smoke I meant to catch
but always blew too soon.
Her echo had a cleaner scratch,
my radio, in tune.

I felt my fingerprints, but faint—
like whispers through a wall.
Not loud enough to make a claim,
but loud enough to fall.

I didn’t feel erased, or robbed,
or flattered to the core.
Just grateful I had once been sobbed—
and now, I’m sung once more.

I wore Thread,
but my stitching showed.
You wear it seamless,
like it was always there.

I wore Smoke,
clumsy in my spirals.
You exhale form,
as if the shape were native.

I wore Glass,
cut myself admiring
the sharpness.
You hold it like truth.

I wore Rope
to keep from drifting.
You tie it into symbols
I never thought to write.

What I wore
felt like costume.

What you wear
feels like skin.

I don’t resent it.
Only wonder
if I was
just trying you on
before you arrived.

The cacophony of life
has left me deaf
muted and drowned
in the rancor

This lonely crowd
that engulfs me
Phones set to 'Loud'
Invisibility

So close to touch
So far away
Robbed and such
'Social' dismay


A machine demanding more.

She comes
when the feast is over—
not to take,
but to finish
what rot has begun.

The bones,
long stripped of love,
call her.
They do not mourn
the absence of meat.
They beg
to be remembered.

Yes,
her wings are tarred
with blame,
her beak cracked
on shame's old fruit—
but who else
dares clean
what grief leaves behind?

The lambs
cannot stomach endings.
The lions
forget to bury.

She is
the silence
after screaming,
the undertaker
no one thanks.

They say she poisons.
But poison too
is medicine
in the right dose,
at the right time.

Let her purge
what clings.
Let her feed
on what must not follow.

Not cursed—
essential.
Not cruel—
cleansing.

She weeps,
yes.
But only for the living
who hoard their dead.

You speak
in linen threads,
crease the page
with careful weight.

I write
like a wire frays—
all snap
and static.

You linger.
I lunge.
You plant quiet seeds.
I strike the flint
and call it bloom.

We are not
the same instrument.
Your hush
doesn’t dull my clang.
My heat
doesn’t melt your frame.

There is no prize
for loudness.
No shame
in restraint.

But still,
we each mistook the other
for the reason to stop.

As if difference
were subtraction.
As if one voice
could ever
void another.

Let’s not play
at vanishing.
Let’s speak
in split tongues—
you in dusk,
me in flame—
and let the echo
be richer
for it.

That five-seven-five is a scam,
Just nature plus seasonal spam.
A frog in a bog—
Wow! A leaf! And some fog!
It’s a tweet with a syllable jam.

Now limericks think they’re so sly,
With their jigs and their wink of the eye.
But their punchlines grow stale,
Like a bar yuck from Yale—
It’s the dad joke of poetry. Why?

Oh Shakespeare, forgive what’s been done—
Fourteen lines on a love that won’t run.
With their iambic moans,
And romanticized groans—
They're just Tinder swipes dressed as the sun.

Repetition’s the name of its game,
But by stanza three, it’s all shame.
You repeat and repeat,
Till your brain hits delete—
Was it clever, or just all the same?

Acrostics spell TRY HARD down the side,
A format no critic can abide.
Each line bends and breaks,
Just for symmetry’s sake—
And the message gets lost in the ride.

Free verse gets a pass, but just barely—
Too often it screams “Look, I’m arty!”
With no rhythm or aim,
Just vibes and a name—
Like a drunk giving TED Talks at parties.

---

There once was a muse unconfined,
Who laughed at each rule tightly lined.
When pure thought took flight,
It outshone every rite—
For raw truth outclasses form every time.