You were never just a person
Never just a face in the crowd
Every hug meant something more
Every kiss on the cheek I wish reached my lips
But it never did

I am a quiet, silent man,
Dwelling deep within myself.
What I long to say aloud,
I pour into a letter’s shell.

She, playful, fleeting like the breeze,
All that I express in words,
She replied with a single image,
And spoke with her eyes unheard.

How beautiful those nights once were,
What magic lived in those old days!
Today again, my heart desires
To send you a letter… always.

But this time, through an artist's hand,
This letter shall reach your grace.
Some words of the heart remain unsaid,
That only colors can embrace.

To the painter I make one humble plea
When you read my letter’s line,
Sketch her soul upon the page,
And let her truest face shine.

Let us see
If my words still hold the weight
Of truth, of ache, of silent grace.
And if she, when the artist paints,
Still wears that same beloved face...
Or was it all just well-performed
a role she played through posed displays?

Still mask, that's what's left- a face,
A canvas for words I've never said.
Your fingers tracing the lace,
The only  thing I ever dread.

You place the letters by my side,
Silent tear rolling down your cheek,
Words tangled in webs, trying to hide,
Knowing that I'll never speak.

You lay white lilies by ice-cold hands,
Close to cover the letters as it lands.

I wear my face, a mask of stone,  
A quiet facade in the world alone.  
But inside, a symphony plays its part,  
The clash of chaos, the whispers of heart.  

The voices rise, the tides they turn,  
Emotions flicker, steady to burn.  
To let them out—what price to pay?  
Will they take the light of day away?  

Unstable, yes, but not undone,  
A prism reflecting more than one.  
Each shard of doubt, each twist of pain,  
Adds depth to the self I can’t explain.  

Don’t fear the dark—it shapes the hue,  
The hidden parts are also you.  
For every shadow, there’s a grace,  
A fragile beauty in this space.

Early winter,
Trouble brewing.
Do I know what the **** I'm doing?
When we meet again will it be clear?
Do I know what I'm doing here?

Spoons still drying,
Sunshine waning,
The once inviting dance is draining.
Caring for myself,
More than someone else,
Is not something I find entertaining.

But when I'm cooking,
When I'm cold,
I connect with something very old.
Memories become old as well
In a backwards kind of parallel

To do lists need belief suspension,
I need to get my driver license,
But first I need to change my name.
Tomorrow's a bitter pill to swallow,
I don't think I like this game.

When is a selfie not a great selfie?
When I’m not recognised.
When proportions are all out of balance.
When I look dead round the eyes.

When is a selfie not a real selfie?
When I look more like my father.
When family traits take a front seat.
When my lost hair is a disaster.

When is a selfie not a true selfie?
When my features just aren’t right.
When my chins are lost in shadow.
When I look like I just lost a fight.

When is a selfie a much better selfie?
Only when I’m unprepared.
When I can’t worry about how it turns out
When I’m fully caught unawares.

I have a great selfie, a much better selfie,
One that was made by my daughter.
You see a great selfie is made a great selfie
When family can make it with laughter.