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n May 18
i’ve been trying to go back
i really need some sort of sign
(when did it start)
maybe, it was always there
(was it always there)

tracing strings backwards
pinning moments on a board
only too become entangled
      by     a      feeling  
that   shouldn’t    need      remorse  

unravel the ties
to keep from fraying
weave     in    and    out
to  stop   each   cravings

knit my words into your brain
stitch your chords into my skin

intertwine to rewind time


reclaim  
respire  
consider  
desire


rinse. repeat.


live in denial
    or  
start   a    fire


reclaim  
respire  
consider  
desire


rinse. repeat.


strike the match
stoke the fire

burning bridges
(so i thought)
it doesn't matter
(an afterthought )


its getting late
it's time to think


              (for)   a   lot     more

                       laughter    (a  love   long  after)

-
be insane; its all too much
(i've always been all too much)

whats the point, if not to -

.
n May 6
i let it all get the best
of me
again

i don’t know why
n Mar 13
my brain has become inert
my thoughts fragmentary
i don’t know where to start
i’ll hold on to all that hurts
out of need, i need to bleed
n Feb 4
3…2…
nothing.

it’s quiet, but i still hear
i’ll always listen for the water
follow the stream (dream)
come back home
  Jan 11 n
Nemusa
I did not come to this earth
to die for the shadow of a dream,
to impale my heart on the sharp thorns
of ambition’s endless rose.
No, I came to live inside the quiet rivers,
to carry the soft weight of the morning’s light
in my hands,
to bury my face in the soil of ordinary days
and rise, fragrant with their whispers.

I did not seek perfection;
perfection is a cruel wind
that bends no branch,
allows no blossom to fall.
Instead, I search for the cracks—
those holy fractures
where the light sings its way in,
where life spills like wine
across the trembling lips of the world.

We are fluent in pain,
each of us holding the dialect of loss
in our bones.
I have read the script of your tears,
seen my own reflection
in the glass of your breaking.
Your heart is a book I know by touch,
each page etched with sorrow
and the tender thumbprints of hope.

I do not long for glory—
glory is a fleeting bird
with a broken wing.
I long for the quiet threads
that sew the sacred to the common:
the bread shared at a wooden table,
the warmth of a hand that holds without asking,
the beauty of a scar kissed by time.

There is a beauty in suffering,
a beauty that does not demand mending.
It stands like a mountain at dusk,
silent and untouchable.
It does not cry for transcendence,
but for the gaze of another,
for the voice that says,
“I am here.
I will not turn away.”

Let us walk,
not as conquerors,
but as pilgrims,
our feet stained by the dust of this earth.
Let us stumble,
our burdens carried not in shame
but as offerings,
as gifts to one another.
We will not flee the ache of life—
no, we will drink it,
pour it into the chalice of the stars,
and watch it glow softly,
a lantern that whispers,
“We are here.
We are enough.”
n Jan 11
i’m pretty sure i’m losing my mind
you probably think i’m crazy too
but i swear (i’m)
everything that i say,
it’s impossibly
                 — true

except maybe you.
n Jan 11
lately i’ve been trying to pretend that -
none of this is even real.
deny the things i can’t control -
ignore all that i can feel.
dream or nightmare?

wish i knew.

lately i’ve been crying in the kitchen.
wishing i were anywhere else -

somebody else.

-
you're a dream
i'm a nightmare
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