Breathe and sing


Words flow out of cherry black lips

like music notes leaping off a conductor’s page


Fingers straddle black and white keys

painting meadows of memory

A raspy voice whispers familiar lyrics to an unfamiliar tune


Smoky rooms smell of sweat and tobacco

Slinky dresses hide shadows of her past

a soulful song echos off of flowered wallpaper, curling at the edges


Her tune, so beautiful, only the few

gathered in the smoky sweat-thick twilight,

hear the secrets woven into its melody


Only a few in her audience

held in a musical trance -

Engulfed in her song; are surrounded by the secrets, the oceans of her past


They stand and sweat as they breathe her breaths

As they brave her battles -



As they hear her solemn moon-lit song

SEALs 1962

Laos was a hot spot
Army,
Marine Corps, and
Navy  Amphibious Scout and Raider
school was established
in 1942 at Fort Pierce, Florida.[12]

Such esprit de we, the fewer still,
we, the braver still, we the never free…

Here, none hearing me, none believing
we survived,

this is 2025, we are past all statutes

limiting idle word accountibility, today
as if all before is over, and this is after,

ever before remains to prove, here now,
on any given day,

all hell breaks loose, you listen, not long,

reply, it's okay, that happens generally,

we don't know it all, but generally,
this is life, the good sometimes win,

sometimes lose, last time, everybody dies.

I've lost your voice.
The world has gone silent.
All I hear are endless
echos bouncing from the walls of my mind.
I only wish to hear it
One last time.

A new room,
cold, empty space.
First glance,
uninviting.
I stood rooted.
For a while,
but without thought,
I stepped.

A bright glow through my eyelid
stunned me at the gate,
of my new beginning.
Struck by someone.
She, who never saw me,
who flattered me with her tone.
A woman with the prettiest auburn hair.
Her eyes, a rainforest,
one brown, another a startling green.

I would give her everything.
Happiness, a better life,
a perfect life,
but its beyond my reach to gift.

Her;

a poem, awestruck,
an abstract painting, worth the stars,
a love story, rose and bold.

She;

a flower, blessed with immortality.

She'd be my reason for life.
She's a spell everyone wants,
a warm feeling everyone needs.

All I want is her,
she's too distant to attain.

All I need now
is a world to grow
around my heart
until I grasp my freedom,
like fresh air
on a walk.

Again and again
The again fatigue.
The ache of it.
I’ve taken my surfing board to sea
too many times to count,
trying to master these waves
that never seem to cease.

They keep on coming.
Crashing.
Breaking.
Unrelenting.

But I...
I keep getting up.
Crying, trying,
Again and again.

Fatigued.
Tired.
Exhausted.
There must’ve been meaning
to the waves I crossed,
to the rage I dared to face.
Surely they meant something!

But they don't stop.
Not yet.
And neither do I.

Because maybe...
maybe I was never meant to master the sea.
Maybe I was born to dance with it.
To laugh in the face of the tide.
To scream and fall and rise like fire
Not to win,
but to become.

Maybe it was never about what others had
but what I’ve carried,
what I’ve kept,
what I refused to let go of
even when it nearly cost me everything.

Maybe it’s okay to fall.
To lose my balance.
To crack open.
To come undone
in the arms of the ocean
and still find myself whole.

And maybe...
just maybe
the waves will always come.

But I will rise.
Again.
And again.
And again.

Until peace meets me
not when the waters calm
but when I know
I was the storm all along.

I shall sea tomorrow.
Again and again.
But this time,
I will have fun.

Be inspired by many things
but don't get caught by wanting
and wanting to be
everything.

L.C.

I sat in silence longer than I should,
not in prayer, nor peace—
but in that tight, bright place
where stillness hums too loud.

At first, it felt like safety:
no movement, no noise,
no eyes to meet,
no choices to disappoint.

I held my breath like a gift
wrapped in glass and guilt,
told myself
this is control—
this is clarity.

And in that tension,
the world sharpened.
Colors bloomed too vivid,
time slowed like sap from a wounded tree,
and I swore I saw truth
etched on the inside of my eyelids.

Some call it grace.
Some call it disassociation.
Some call it euphoria.
But it is stillness born from fear—
and even the stars blink.

Because what is stillness
if not a waiting room for pain?
A way to pause the scream
just long enough
to pretend we were never hurting?

I held still so long
the quiet became a voice,
the voice became a weight,
and the weight
felt like home.

But home shouldn’t suffocate you.

So I breathed.
A slow, raw, ragged thing—
the kind that stretches lungs
and makes the ribs ache
from use.

And with it came
not release,
not revelation,
but a simple, selfish need:
to live.

To move.
To tremble.
To scream.
To sing again.

Even if the voice cracks.
Even if no one listens.
Even if stillness comes back tomorrow—
I now know I can let go
before I burst.
-**