Bitterness crept in
And left its stain
plush white carpet
Perfect no more

More or less
Passing the time
And failing to commit
Yet another crime

Lest boast the mind
Accepting fate
Burden to carry
Choosing not to set it down

The strongest people are often the quietest,
Their shoulders broad enough to bear the weight of the world.
They listen when others crumble,
Piecing together broken hearts with steady hands.
Their words soothe,
Their presence steadies,
And their silence feels like a refuge.

But when their own walls begin to crack,
When the weight they carry grows too heavy,
Their voices falter.
Soft cries for help,
Eclipsed by the noise of lives they once held together.
Their pain fades into the background,
A whisper swallowed by the chaos of others.

They are seen as unshakable,
An unyielding constant in a storm.
But even the tallest trees sway,
Even the strongest pillars crack under strain.

Still, they stand,
Hoping someone will notice the way they lean,
Hoping someone will hear the faint echoes of their ache.
But most days,
Their own needs dissolve into the shadows,
Invisible in the light they give to others.

And in the stillness of their loneliness,
They wonder if anyone will ever listen
The way they have listened all along.

I thought I could outrun the weight,
but the burden was never mine—
like a passenger begging for control,
but only the crash was waiting,
and I didn't even scream.

A love language is scrolled upon the walls of my house,
Hand-lettered on the plaster,
Waxy under layers of bluish and yellowed patina.
The grasp of time is precious.
The artist died decades ago, but the words hold him here.

He is the protector of the house.
He gives me his memories.
He visits my dreams.

"This world is so beautiful," he tells me.
He cannot leave the view of Bear Mountain and the cottonwoods.
He cannot leave the rock walls
Built with his own craggy hands.

But...
He is not mine.
There was no consent.
I am tired of self-absorbed ghosts.

I sage and sage until he’s choked out by smoke.
When he finally surrenders,
The vanity cracks, and
I offer him up to the golden angels,
Who take him away and remind him who he really is.

Then I have reverence.
Then I lay down the flowers.
Then my heart can melt into
The house that is mine.

A
name
is
selected for her,
but felt,
deep down,
like
only
familiar chains.

What is a choice, anyway -
is it a freedom, or is it a burden?

For me,
it is a paralysis
between what is and what should be.

Who I am,
who I should be...
who I could be.

Choice opens up possibilities -
endless, unfathomable possibilities.

Choice is making a decision
I am not qualified to make.
In a world where manipulation is rewarded,
marginalisation is profited upon,
and freedom of choice is weaponised -

I’m not sure I feel free.

Where your freedom to choose
now carries with it the responsibilities of greedy oil companies,
tech giants,
and toxic product producers.  

It is the irony of being forced into a system
that tells you:
you chose to be here,
It’s your fault!

You drank the highly addictive Kool-Aid  
we forced down your throat,
and that addiction -
is your fault!

We are persuaded into thinking our choices are casual,
while they are anything but.

I relinquish my freedom to choose.

Instead,

I search for the freedom of simplicity -
where a choice becomes personal once again.

What clothing mood am I in today?
What do I feel like eating this morning?
How shall I spend my Sunday afternoon?
What’s my body telling me about this social interaction?

In lieu of...

Whose opinion should I base my personality on?
What can I justify as a “healthy” amount of time spent on social media?
Which chickens had the happiest lives?
What dishwashing liquid is the least toxic?

Yes -

I crave the simplicity of what is,
not what could be.

Often, I envy the unbothered-ness of the breeze -
sometimes going this way,
sometimes going that way.

Completely unconcerned with the junction between directions -
simply following its set course.

...or at least, I pray, the strength to bear the knowledge."




A lifetime of hardship
        weighs down on my shoulders,

  I've buried my hate,
                             but it keeps getting colder,

Cry out to the heavens, sky's beauty unfurled-
While I commune, here, with Atlas
           beneath the weight of the world.