There the highs are,
then come the lows
this great flow
of mystery
that nature
has granted

it's part of the game,
some ancient pattern
that only few
master

this is a glance
of the Way,
an essence
of poles,
where all
is one
yet
there exist
opposites

the center,
of everything
go there,
and find
balance

Uncovered consciousness,
truth from time stories stones tell,

great madnesses, raging troops of boys,
whose fathers wandered off

vacat

we wait, we wet the thirsty clay
we wait, we let it dry and become scripture.

Every day, I open my reality:
I wake up.
I feel.
I choose.
I decide—
knowing so many others
are crying behind the scenes,
and their trembling is raw.

Pain isn’t consolation—
it reinforces the structure of fragility
when the towers are crumbling.

At the core, we return,
squeezing black-and-white struggles
into our veins, into our memories.

To the only home
we never left
our own body.
The first and the last.

Sad I float by
Like the lonely cloud in the clear sky,
I feel as though like the deep sea,
No one truly knows me.
There are some things I wish not to recall,
Inevitably like rain they must fall,
As dark days behest loneliness,
I search deep within in silence,
I realise what I seek is there in me
Here, there, everywhere free,
Enough my ownself.
29/5/2025

I didn't know how to tell
So I bled ink instead of tears
I didn't know how to yell
So I hid the pain away for years

a meditation on love

It is to
vibrate as high
as one can fathom
by laughing
with sweet thunder
to uplift the soul

To be in sync with
the natural world

To give thanks
to the higher force
surrounding
the all of life

To walk in kind loving steps
with gentle words on
the lips

Remembering who you are
existing in the sacred
arms of the holy fabric
of everything.

Be careful
when you decide
to sit down and rest.
You might take too long
and the sadness
might not leave.

No one’s here
to lend a hand,
so keep an eye
on the oil in your car,
the way your teeth
are falling apart.

Tend to your hurt.
Cradle it
rock it to sleep
against your
beating heart.

Drum your pooling blood
onto the page.
Write life.
Rest.

But please be careful,
the world keeps going,
even after death.

Affixed to the Lee–Enfield,
this blade, this trigger point,
stricken by ambush,
enters the melee
along the false edge,
cuts to the core,
like sympathizers of
William of Orange.

There are no daggers
apart from war,
just an ocean of
death and defeat,
its water,
its ever rising water,
swallows us whole.

she took my picture,
that's how it started
that's how i knew,
she took my picture
off the refrigerator door

when your picture is taken off
the refrigerator
like dust off a knick knack shelf

you do the dishes,
you have to wash your own socks.

the refrigerator is cursed
like a lost winning lottery ticket.
cursed with pictures of dead pets,
dead aunt's, cousins, grandma...

(my picture rip off the fridge like $#@#$#@...)


the fridge hums its song,
warm on the outside
and cold on the inside.

you *******, i shout,
and i punched the fridge,
packed my suitcase,

grabbed my fishing pole
and out the front door
I went.

half way down the sidewalk,
I turned

and there was little Jack
looking out the window at me.

(tears ran down my cheeks.)

MAN! I'm gonna miss that dog!!!

I’ve moved out (of school),
I’m moving in (to school).
My joke is that I’m having a ‘moving experience.’

Graduating college (3 days ago) was a dream come true
I’m starting a master’s degree in 7 days.
You have to admire the efficiency.

Do I have your permission to bear my soul?
I might have imposter syndrome.
I’m a harsh critic—of everything—but mostly me.

I’m over the romance and pressure of school.
I’m starting the romance and pressure of school.
Don’t worry, this isn’t hapless, sad girl literature.

Or a diary—it’s a portrayal of my inner life.
.
.
A song for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Messy by Lola Young [E]