impossible 6.21.25 (2:07 pm / 14:07)
it feels so
impossible
to carry on

i know i wrote a poem called carry on
that day was a good day, may 7, 2025
that day was a day i might have been happy

it feels so impossible to go back there
that light and love are impossibly far away
everything good is impossible for me

i want someone to make impossible possible
i want someone to at least want to help me
please
is it so hard?
i've tried for you, would you try for me too?

maybe that's impossible too
just wishful thinking
there's no one here for me

i’ve tried so hard
it's impossible

alive for you 6.26.25 (9:13 pm / 21:13)
i like to think i stay alive for you
i like to believe i breathe for you
i like to imagine my heart beats for you

i might be wrong
i'm probably crazy
it's a nice thought, anyways

[playing: the lakes - bonus track by taylor swift]

power is not force. it is presence that doesn’t leave.
(the one who stands and is drawn towards. not by command, but by gravity.)


i do not command,
i endure.
i do not move.
i remain
and so, draw.

not with force,
but with gravity.
the name silence wears
when someone listens
long enough.

i am not flame.
i am the hand
that might one day
be lifted.

power is not possession.
it is presence
that does not flee
when you need
to be seen.

⋯

you do not ask,
but wish to be held.
you are not pleading,
you are forming
a shape unfinished,
already breathing.

you do not surrender.
you open.
like a hand
where a name
wants to rest.

this is not weakness.
this is the dignity
of being known.

Not all rivers
end up in the ocean–
doesn't make their journey
less worthy.

Not all love
ends up in a lover's arms–
doesn't make it any less
worthy.

Do not stand
          By my grave, and weep.
     I am not there,
          I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
     Do not stand
          By my grave, and cry—
     I am not there,
          I did not die.
— Clare Harner, The Gypsy, December 1934

sleep-heavy eyes, my hand reaches for you
then flinches – you’re nowhere in view.
the imagined shape only a breath ago
fled like a bandit
into dawn’s dissolving glow.
now my waking mind falters,
disappointment finds the door
through which you chose to leave –
once more.