I’ve stood at the edge
of so many beginnings—
just close enough to taste them,
never close enough to stay.
The door always slightly ajar,
never open.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

People call me potential,
but never presence.
A promise, not a person.
Their faith feels like fog—
thin and disappearing
the moment I reach for it.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I speak like I know who I am,
but the echo doesn’t agree.
My words crumble in my mouth
before they ever build meaning.
Even my hope sounds rehearsed.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I dream in color,
but live in grayscale.
My hands stretch forward
but always fall short—
of the vision,
of the version
of me I thought I’d be by now.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

So I write.
I bleed ink and silence
trying to draw a shape
that feels like truth.
And maybe one day,
I’ll look back
and see I was becoming all along.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

Night Portraits
And Night Landscapes
Leave shadows for us to fill
Or to leave full
of nocturnal potential

It’s a feeling that has no words to describe,
when the late autumn leaves fade color.
Quietly waving a final goodbye
in the chill as morning mist hovers.
 
It’s something between a pure feeling of peace
and a loneliness down to the bone.
Perfect tranquility rests on the air,
but the sadness won’t leave you alone.
 
Life has a way of drifting in waves,
up and down through the moments we live.
Yet lurking below in the dim and the cold
are so many things buried that give
 
hidden purpose to cry. Is there some reason why
we go on always holding it in?
We should learn from the trees who let go, so in Spring…
they can always start over again.

I feel like I live in an infinite void of nothingness. Between the vast worlds that I remain The Observer to. I’ve been in so many things, but never fully committed, be it by my own volition or external circumstances. Perhaps no one has and the continuity and consistency I seek is all an illusion generated by my limited presence in the spaces I transiently call home in a desperate attempt to belong to things that I feel deep down I simply can’t. Do I know it to be certain, or is it merely faulty—unhealthy—subconscious programming? I wish I knew.
I have so much potential—I sincerely know it; I see it every day. Yet, despite this, I remain a car in fifth gear, wheels spinning in winter’s freezing, putrid slush, and remain stationary as I drain all my energy, rocking back and forth across the slippery driveway.
Like my body and brain—like me—my devices’ batteries seem to drain too quickly; where’d all that time and energy go? Yet, Time seems to firmly drag me along through an eternity, moment to moment, when pain strikes me with its sour, sharp, and nearly all-penetrating hand.
The evening sunlight sure does look pretty out the window and coming in onto the walls, though. That’s something.
A group walks by. By no means a popular group–not that popularity matters much–but they, despite the game of Society stacking most odds against them, have found their people: each other. These geeks that pass by the window are happy despite this, and though I may have traits that set me apart from them, I remain set apart from near everyone else.
I fear, from the deeply-rooted subconscious program from a childhood of my depth and passions never being understood, much cared for, or even acknowledged, that those who are near to me cannot fully see it. I know they love me; no question there despite the doubts creeping in. The programming renders both nearly impossible to feel. Spectacular.

Awkward and lanky,

not a boy and not yet a man.

Youth, litheness; potential

and yet, still teachable.