There is such a simple math
when it comes to Sylvia Plath
to this undying Confessional fad

for in order to finally add
one must first subtract
leave all balance left in tact

hence one must choose
to be prepared to then lose
before at last you dare take

that final line break

It could not be any clearer
how I must now deceive the mirror
assume another tragic role
even if it must then take its toll

For I have crawled many miles
painted on so many smiles
just to get where I am
using words I dare enjamb

Wanting to only just reveal
a hint at all that I do feel
all that I do still now know
within a perfect poetic flow

Ignoring all of those voices
offering such trivial choices
tried to convince me to stay
on a different path, a different way

While I take this empty stage
prepare to turn another page
even though this ink is not dry

ever certain of how I must try

How do I then transpire
walking out after the fire
after everything has burned
along with everything I learned

No longer needing to be rash
leave these footprints in the ash
a trail for me to now follow
with all of this pride I swallow

As I seek out what will last
fusing future, present and past
into a single moment to claim
finally free of any lingering blame

Climbing this final lonely hill
in the hope to somehow spill
words to capture all that I feel
the rapture of all that I reveal

Able to full immerse in ink
balance how I feel and think
I reflect upon that initial spark

how it illuminated all the dark

I want to feel each sweet word
the tickle when it is heard
the sting when it then fades
a cut from far too many blades

Or so it does always seem
when I dare to care to dream
let my thoughts just scatter
write as though it does matter

What I once more now say
play the roles in this sad play
that I penned for my very self
old stale poetry from the shelf

This lone anthem from my life
dipped in both joy and strife
meant for me to again feel
how each moment was real

Spilt in a fluorescent ink
yet disappearing in a blink
feeling this true poetajazz
all the magic that it still has

Is there really much left to say
about a contrast in grey
with so many different shades
sharpening all of these blades

Penning here line by line
in search of some sign
an omen to be read
or perhaps ignored instead

For it leaves me unimpressed
by each confession confessed
every lie I ever told
exaggerations now resold

As I hope for any clue
about why the sky is blue
why the days diminish
before I have a chance to finish

When my thoughts are contiguous
in a world forever so ambiguous
never making thing clear
now that the last lines is here

Tell me what hides here inside
a truer verity still denied
all these feelings and thoughts
well beyond mere shoulds and oughts

For I am always on this quest
facing every challenge and test
to dig down deep within
to find every virtue and sin

Lay them all out in a row
so that I might come to know
what I am now meant to learn
what salvation I might then earn

This stigmata of spilt ink
proof I am on the brink
of revealing all that I dare
within each poem I do share

As I again take on the night
fully prepared to recite
embrace this blatant patency
manifesting all of this latency

There was a time when your laugh was my home,
When friendship was a soft place, a safe zone.
But the world that should’ve cradled you with care
Let you slip through, unnoticed, unaware.

You wore the weight of their words like chains,
And I, too young, couldn’t stop the rain.
I watched you fade, each day a little more,
But no one else seemed to see you soar.

I saw the cracks in your smile,
The way you shrank with each cruel trial.
The halls grew quieter the day you fell,
A whisper lost in a never-ending hell.

They said it was an accident, a tragedy.
But I knew better. I knew your plea.
I knew the way the darkness crept
Into your heart, the one you kept.

The echo of your voice still haunts me,
A call I never had the chance to see.
I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep,
I drowned in the grief I couldn’t keep.

Your absence crushed me,
I felt the weight of it like a stone.
The world turned its back,
But I was left here…

Alone.

I didn’t know where to go.
I didn’t know how to breathe.
I didn’t know how to scream.
I wanted to vanish,
I wanted to leave.
But your ghost kept me here,
Torn between the silence,
By the shattered fear.
I’m falling apart—
Falling…
apart..
.

There are rooms I do not enter, doors I welded shut with bone and sinew, memories pressed between the walls like dried insects, fragile, rotting, never quite dead.

The past does not sleep.

It moves beneath my skin, a rhythm of hands that never let go, voices that coil around my throat, laughter that sounds like breaking glass.

I walk through mirrors and find someone else staring back, eyes that don't belong to me, a mouth that speaks in riddles, a face I've tried to carve away.

But the past grows back like ivy, crawling, strangling, consuming.

There were nights that never ended, silent wars fought in locked rooms, secrets swallowed like shards of ice, cold, cutting, sinking deep.

I have learned to live as a whisper, to step lightly through the wreckage, to fold myself into the smallest spaces, as if disappearing could make me safe.

But echoes do not die. They linger, they gnaw, they fester. And in the quiet, when the world goes still, they find their way back home.

I challenge you to broaden your views
If you are one who is adversarial,
But should you shun competition
I welcome you to engage in cooperation.
That we may learn from each other,
Sharing our personal perspectives.
If I had ventured to say
That there is no such sturdier foundation
From which upon to build on,
Would you call me crazy?
Perhaps, in a pitiful way,
You would refer to me
As an optimist
Or as daydreaming & faraway.
It's just not realistic, not here or today.
Cooler heads do not prevail,
Safety leveraged over risk is gay,
Precaution is something for *******.
What bullish nonsense and pigheadedness,
Are you not freely disposed toward exercising
Those of your most sacred rights & liberties?
Is too heavy the weight of vulnerability?

There’s a thread on her wrist,
red like pomegranate seeds bursting—
three knots tight as a mother’s secret,
three wishes pressed between breaths
when the world looks away.
She whispers into the glitches—
the way the sky skips like a scratched vinyl,
the way the ground hums
just before the fall.

She doesn’t blink anymore.
It’s all there,
in the corner of your mouth,
in the pauses where words drown themselves.
She hears the notes you never played,
sees the shadow in the mirror’s gasp,
speaks to the silence like a sister.

The bracelet taught her the language of sap
and stone and the ocean’s bite.
It sings in loops, an ancient chorus—
not yours, not mine,
but something older than the first mistake.

Three knots, she says,
for the door that never stays shut,
for the stars stitched into her palms,
for the moments where time hiccups and forgets itself.

And when she speaks,
it’s not a voice—it’s a frequency,
a vibration you feel in your ribs
like a forgotten childhood song.
She turns her wrist—
the red thread catches the light—
and the world unravels for her,
one gift, one glitch, one truth at a time.