I've never had a real brush with doom,
But I can't say it came too soon.

For I almost lost everything,
To that ****** error screen.

Long live this, long live HP!

It returns!
Not a minute too late,
For I was getting worried,
It wouldn't return today!
But boy staring at a blank screen,
It really made me think,
Maybe I need something than this?

Writing doesn't pay,
My father wished for a son who could write anyways.
So I see that's what he got,
Though I think he wanted movie scripts and monologues,
Not random rhymes and songs.
Alas, even when you wish,
You never get quiet what you wished for.

you can't force a realist to realize silhouettes on water.

Silent Echo was an inspiration,
A genius poet with a depth of thought I aspired to have.
Though while he was crude at times,
I never once found fault in his rhymes.
Best wishes to you friend,
And I hope soon I'll read your work once again.

She was August, I was February
months apart, but tied by the same number
Eleven, like a thread linking distant days,  
like Pepero sticks she loved,  
thin, sweet, and gone too fast.  

She was the girl who handed me slippers in the rain,  
who lent me her red, green, and white files,  
who sat in the third row while I sat in the first,  
but somehow, we always found our way to the same place.  

She was fries on one eventful canteen day,  
laughing about weight neither of us really cared about.  
She called herself Snorlax,  
but to me, she was Eevee  
full of possibilities, always shifting, always bright.  

She sent me memes, told me to wake up,  
to sleep early
to try again tomorrow
She saw Natsume in me
though I never watched Gakuen Alice to know why
Maybe she saw the quiet fire I never named.  

She was there,  
and then she wasn’t.  
Distance, time, then silence
life pulled us apart like a ribbon unraveling.  
But somewhere
in the space between eleven and eleven
she still lingers.

I remember the rain, heavy on our umbrellas,  
the scent of wet earth as we walked,  
silent, yet knowing.  
You handed me the slippers first,  
a small kindness that opened a password door in my heart.  

In our classroom filled with murmurs and pages turning,  
you sat in the last row,  
your glasses catching the fluorescent light and time,  
your hairband keeping time with your movements
You were a tomboy, you said,  
but to me, you were softer than the world allowed.

A quiet building, an empty hallway,  
fries shared between words that meant everything and nothing
The pull of something unspoken  
led us up the stairs, past the classrooms where fans hummed  
to a moment that rewrote us.  

Afterward, we laughed in daylight,  
separate yet tangled,  
our conversations shifting between equations and longing.  
You had friends; I had you in the quiet.  
And then time carried us away,  
first to different cities, then to different lives.  

You reappeared in pixels and midnight messages,  
a voice from the past steadying me in my new world
But distance is a slow tide,  
pulling even the strongest memories apart
I spoke too much, stupidly shared too much, or maybe just enough,  
and you drifted again,  
this time with no promise of return.  

Now, I hold you in flashes
the rain, the fries, the hush of a stairwell,  
the echo of a name I can no longer address.

what a blessing for a writer,
to suffer.

adds validity,
better to speak
from experience
than imagination.
see, fiction writers
write to escape.
us poets?
we write
to release.

ink allows us
to bleed
onto
perfect plain paper pages,
our true canvas.
a ‘healthier’
way
to bleed.

perhaps
it’s because
they don’t see
the wounds words leave.
never experienced
that punch to the
gut, i’m sure,
from
one
single
line.

does that make them lucky?
i’m unsure.
perhaps it suggests
they’ve never
been that
misunderstood,
neglected,
lonely,
as to where words
are their only friends.
on the other hand,
they’ve never known
the pure
bliss
that is
understanding.
sweet, sour
relief.

those of us
that have experienced
it,
we long to feel it
again.
so we write,
to understand ourselves,
and hopefully,
help others do the same.