There was once a man who understood the world
as if it had whispered its secrets to him in the cradle.
Numbers bent beneath his fingertips,
equations sang where others only heard silence.
A gift, they said. A mind of fire, a blessed thing.
And so he worked, because what else does a man do
when the stars have lodged themselves in his skull?

He walked among them,
the ones with fractured voices, with trembling hands.
He was kind, as though kindness was instinct,
as though, if he gave enough,
the echo of warmth might return to him,
filling the space inside his ribs
where something—something—should have been.

But the years passed,
and nothing came back.

He watched them love, weep, ache, yearn.
He watched their faces crumple with sorrow,
their lips part with laughter.
He listened to the hush of breath between lovers,
the trembling exhale of grief.
He saw it all. Knew it all.
And felt nothing.

There were days he thought—perhaps—
if he held their hands long enough,
if he stood in the sun a little longer,
if he worked harder,
if he buried himself in something greater—
it would come.
The feeling.
The thing they all had.

And so he worked.
And worked.
Until his name was etched into books,
until his mind had shaped the world,
until they called him a genius,
until they called him irreplaceable.

And yet, no one ever called him home.
Nor did ask him to be his home.

He was a man of stone, carved for others,
for purpose, for brilliance, for the world.
But never for himself.
Never for love.
Never for anything that would make him whole.

They celebrated him from a distance.
They praised his name in rooms he would never enter.
They quoted his words but never spoke to him.
And when he lay in bed at night,
staring at the ceiling,
listening to his own breath echo off the empty walls,
he knew.
It would always be like this.

Time unraveled.
His hands trembled now when he held a pen.
His voice, once steady, grew thin,
as though it were fraying at the edges,
as though it, too, was disappearing.
And one day, he could not stand.

The world did not stop for him.
No one knocked at his door.
No one sent letters asking where he had gone.

The cold settled in his limbs first,
then in his chest,
then in his throat.
And as his body curled in on itself,
something strange happened.

A single tear slipped down his cheek.

For the first time in his life, he cried.
Not from grief, nor fear, nor joy.
Just the quiet weight of knowing—
finally, and without doubt—
that he had always been alone.

By morning, the tear had dried.
No one found him for days.
And when they did,
they spoke only of his brilliance.
They carved his name into marble,
listed his work,
his discoveries,
his genius.

But not one word about the man himself.

Not one word about the man who hoped.

Out-dated
Understated
Strange clothes and hair
That make some stare
Or all snazzy
And jazzy
Dressed to stun
For love or for fun

Whoever we are
And whatever we are
Fashion freaks
Cool and chic
Couldn’t care less
Overdressed

The one thing
We can all wear
Is a smile

Because a smile -
Is always in style

Am I just a fly on the wall to you?

Simple, and plain
A thing to be ignored

But you should know
This delicate flower is easily burned
The petals will fall off
And the ashes float up into the night

You have my thanks for teaching me this truth

If you are cruel in this cruel world,
You survive
If you are kind in this cruel world,
You become the victim.

I crave soft touches and gentle words.
Reassuring hands holding mine in the
darkness of this world. Sweet humanity
cradling my soul as I no longer fear for
the present. I wish for tender care given
by rough hands, silky hands, and every
hand in between. Love isn’t shown in
bravery or strength. It is shown in kind-
ness and compassion. Love is as bright
and soft as a full moon on a starry night.

History has always had your back.
Society will always stab you in it.
Let heads roll low on the ground,
While you hold your head high.
Might doesn’t ever make right.
The strongest among us are always
those with naught but compassion
and kindness growing in their hearts.
Weeds, they will always grow back.
Society will tell you that there is no
difference between strength and will.
History tells us that will is stronger.

Righting our parents’ wrongs is very hard,
And fixing broken minds can be even harder.
Maybe we should try harder to fix our behavior.
Cause our behavior can harm more than it helps.
Our impact is always affected by our intent,
And we must always try to be kind.