who hurt you
so much now?

get back up
off the ground.

they may have
let you down,

but that doesn't mean
you're down
for the count.

just wait.

give it
a little time—

things happen
for a reason,

and your heart
is aching
for something more.

i know
you’ve been through
a lot.

you’ve tried so hard,
fought to stay afloat—
still breathing
through the weight.

just wait.

lovers come
for a reason,
a season,
or a lifetime.

but seeking
your worth
in someone
who won’t see it

will only leave you
in shambles.

just wait.

the right one
will appear

when you
least expect it.

don’t give up.
you are more
than enough.

just wait.

the right one
will appear—
and they’ll love you
for real.

I don’t worry how my old clothes  
will look on their new owners at Goodwill.  
They have places to be,  
stories to live  
beyond my closet.  

Still, letting go feels strange.  
I hesitated at the donation bin,  
fingers brushing fabric worn soft  
by years of routine.  
Shirts that carried me through long days,  
pants that held their shape  
even when I didn’t,  
sweaters that wrapped me in warmth  
when I needed comfort.  
Familiar, reliable—  
but clothes, like memories,  
aren’t meant to be hoarded.  

And maybe, I realize,  
I am ready to let them go—  
ready to make space  
for the person I am becoming,  
not just the one I have been.  

Now, my shirts might end up  
on a college kid,  
worn soft from late-night study sessions,  
coffee stains mapping out  
their ambitions.  

My pants could find a new home  
with a dad who needs extra pockets  
for snacks, keys, and crumpled receipts  
from weekends spent chasing his kids.  

A Dolphins t-shirt might land  
in the hands of someone  
who doesn’t even watch football,  
but wears it anyway  
because it fits just right—  
or because aqua and orange  
make them feel bold.  

Some pieces will travel far,  
stuffed into suitcases  
heading toward new cities,  
new jobs, new beginnings.  
Others will stay close,  
worn by someone  
who just needed  
a warm sweater on a cold night.  

I won’t know where they go,  
but I like to think they’ll be loved,  
threadbare in all the best ways,  
living new lives  
I’ll never see.  

And as I walk away,  
hands empty, closet lighter,  
I expect to feel loss—  
but instead, I feel space.  
Room for new stories,  
new routines,  
new warmth—  
not just in fabric,  
but in the quiet that remains.  

Maybe I’ll fill it with something new,  
or maybe I’ll leave it open,  
letting the quiet remind me  
that not everything needs replacing.  
That sometimes,  
emptiness is its own kind of comfort,  
a soft place to grow into something new.

You are still alive in me
The way your eyes would find me in the crowd,
How you would smile looking at me,
I was the prize.
You are still alive in me
The short walks, the long walks,
The sunsets, the fireworks,
I was the luckiest.
You are still alive in me
Your hands always trying to reach mine,
Every time the coffee slipped off mine,
I was the silliest.
You are still alive in me
In the long shadows,
In the dialogues of that action movie,
I was dramatic.
You are still alive in me
I’ll imagine her hands,
I’ll imagine her face,
I’ll imagine her smile,
I am defeated.

In the flow of my words, I found love.
Through these fogged eyes, I saw you.
Through this hated heart, I saw yours.
It was ever so radiant, so genuine, and so divine.
It lit up my world; from the darkness, I awoke.

I was butterflies when you saw flies.
I was lost when I saw you smile.
I ate up my words when they made you cry.
I was ready to eat myself whole
If it meant making you mine.

Then everything choked.
The world lost its color.
I lost the voice I never had.
Your silence made the dead of night recur.
I lost the only song that kept my heart astir.

In this flow of words, I found guilt.
I found heartbreak, and I found everything bleak—
Everything that I was never meant to build.
So I silenced the voice of my cries
That hummed when they saw the gold in your eyes.

In these days of melancholy,
My world feels dull, lifeless, and blue.
My mind races to the days when we talked,
So effortlessly, so full of vigor and hearts glued.
Now I see only the emptiness
And the coldness of a smoke-choked heart

But even in the quiet, you linger near,
A ghost of love I hold sincere.

dearly beloved,
we are gathered here today
to celebrate the memorial
of those who we were
at one point in time,
those we became
as the world continued to chime,
and those we shall be
when the clocks stop ticking—
like the tune of that one track
in your head
that just doesn't seem to stop hitting.

we are settled here today
to welcome the peace we've desired,
the love we've forgotten,
and the happy akin to the sunshine
on flowers surrounding our graves.

we will succumb to the fire and air
as we're provided with,
based on our actions and tribulations,
we're pardoned with.

tangle of bones in the dust,
holding engravings
of those who marked each other—
the soulmates and the friends alike.
none can ever witness it,
but in the pale moonlight.

"and i shall stay with you,
holding hands, keeping close,
when the angels in front of us
sing a rhyme
that presents before us
the days we barely awaited
all this time.

since we met,
knowing we were to separate,
i shall hold you every time,
in each moment,
even if it is to berate.

no matter if it's the end—
if that's what it means
to live by, 'till death do us part'.
i shall do it again and again,
this destiny or the afterlife,
reckoning in all its might,
will do it again,
with all my heart,
even if you were to leave me & depart."

Whether you wanna wear that yellow sundress,
or the black pants, but they require press.
Whether you wanna wake early morning,
or stay awake late nights reading.
Whether you wanna play a song to dance,
or a calm music to get a stance.

I wish those were the type of confusion,
Life tossed upon you in profusion.

Mía fue, como fueron
míos sus besos;
mía, como rosas y versos.

Mía, nunca fue, pero
suyo todavía soy.

Mía, ya no es, lo sé; pero
suyo seré, tal vez
por siempre, o simplemente por hoy.

This is the shoe where poetry lives
It walks with a tap and the occasional hop and skip
But on Mondays it drags a little on the way to the train station

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Ready to throw a kick but inevitably risking a stubbed toe
Harbouring the memory of a break and the months of limp

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Experimenting with an odd sock, denoting a qwerky outlook
And if you were to examine it's sole you'd find an uneven wear

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Grass stained from ventures along less travelled paths
And carrying scuffs from many climbed boundary walls

This is the shoe where poetry lives
And it sits by the back door ready for the next adventure
Silently jealous of the shoe that was claimed by the dog last night