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.

Say you love me
like I love you
often and always
a million times
embrace me
consume me
burn me with kisses

If you go deaf
I will stop listening
If you go blind
I will stop looking
If you die
I will stop living
.
.
Songs for this:
From The Start by Good Kid
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
Lover Girl by Laufey
In a Manner of Speaking (feat. Camille) by Nouvelle Vague

i envy the sun
it embraces you in my absence

Look at her, she loves

him, a wonderful feeling --


to hold forever.

there is a place softer than sleep,
quieter than the hush between waves,
where i forget where my body stops
and yours starts—

your lap, your hands, your breath
braiding me into the moment
like a thread pulled through silk.

fingers slow, wandering, learning,
finding stories in my hair
that neither of us wrote
but both of us know.
the kind told without words,
only the hum of a thumb across my temple,
the rise and fall of a chest that is mine
and yours
and ours.

my cheek on your leg,
the fabric warm from you,
the world outside shrinking,
turning to nothing but the sound of you breathing,
the rhythm of us matching without trying,
without thinking,
like we were made to move in the same time.

i could spend lifetimes here,
in the space between your ribs,
the dip of your knee,
the cradle of your arms,
held like something precious,
held like something known.

and maybe that’s it.

not just the warmth, not just the weight,
not just the touch,
but the knowing—
that here,
like this,
i belong.

but i can never let you see this.
never let you read the way i dream of sinking into you,
the way my body aches not just to be close,
but to be wanted close.
to be held because you want to hold me,
not just because i fit into the space beside you.

if you knew—if you saw—
would you pull away?
would the space between us grow sharp,
like silence that means something different than it used to?

so i will press delete.
i will fold this feeling up small,
tuck it between the pages of my ribs,
and pray you never notice
the way i shiver when you touch me.

All i see
Uncovering in front of me
Tearing at the seam
Colors colliding
All around
Feel the sound
Frequency released

Turn around
Its you,
Staring into
The mirror reflecting
Hi, hello.
Finally facing she.
klarity
the ones that sees beneath

shadows, coming to rise
Inner child, always resides
within the frame,
& she hides,she silently cries
she hates the way she thinks
I feel her pain, i want to comfort her
Must keep her safe.

Yet, her patience grows thin
I can't keep playing pretend.
can only run from myself
For so long
Until there's no more distractions
to save me from my own self.
Sure,
Try to put the reflection on the shelf.
Did the old you fade away?
Or are you just lying to yourself
Rejecting & silencing the parts of you
that still need help.
---
Keep running
Keep wishing
Keep waiting
The clock
Still ticking
Keep dancing
Until your sweet ever afters
you must see your shadows,
And not run astray
Time to integrate.
A healthy array
Of truth and acceptance

Instead of judging
Seek to understand
Is what i always say,
How about i apply it to
The one who's typing this
The who cant sleep
The one who feels the emptiness
And the bliss
Yet feeling irate.
Shes a paradox wrapped in skin
She loves herself yet she hates
& she's trapped in her brain.

What causes her to act in ways.
That she will probably rregret
Tomorrows yetserday..

Grey clouds crack open, weeping angels,
rain cascades, a liquid broom
washing earth's filth and sin.
The smell? Enigmatic—spring's embodiment,
summer evening's bold scent.
Drops like strings, smacking,
a hundred clapping hands under a faucet.
The wind keeps pace, whooshing,
shaking excess from leaves.
Tires glide on wet slick,
cars pass like crashing waves.

Peaceful, serene, innocent, refreshing.
Cold strings, exploding like macro water grenades,
rejuvenate skin.
A wonder to stare at, always.
Whether three, experiencing first cognizance,
or thirty-one, marveling.
Rain, a majestic measure of universal peace
in a world of chaos and noise.
Chaotic itself, like a jazz band drumming,
wind wailing past windows—
yet so serene.

Still, rain brings annoyance.
Bones ache, joints lock and creak,
and a youthful strut turns rusty tin-man waltz.
But its mysticism deafens pain
and frees the mind to fly.
Clarity, a rare enigma,
tickles skin raises arm hairs,
kisses lips with reality,
appearing ****, flirting with prismatic curves—
often ignored, and unnoticed.
Euphoria is splendidly remiss.

So easy to catalog memories,
reflect in life's mirror,
and determine what needs changing.
Everything changes with time.

Life, a garden.
We inherit seeds of knowledge,
plant interesting parts.
Love and sadness water, shine on plants
bearing flowers we call friends:
tulips, lilacs, dangerous roses.
Unique: blue, orange, red, white, pink.
Some sweet, some foul.
Each one is unique.
Flowers grow wild and wilt on vines.
Some aren't flowers, but weeds,
diseasing what they touch, like death.
Covered in insects, eroding beauty.
As a gardener, you decide:
anarchic disarray?
Or grab shears, and prune ugliness.
Friends who matter won't let your soul wilt.
Yes, rainfall brings such clarity.

But clarity's bubbles are superficial.
Easily burst, window closing, smog reconfiguring.
A bowling ball rolls across the sky and strikes pins—
a lucky strike.
Tree branches of light shoots extend,
lasts a second, and seems slower.
Adrenaline rushes, heart pounds like a drum.
Seconds pass, another strike, another flash.
A storm had come...
and it would pass.