#authenticvoice
There’s something I haven’t told you.
When you read my words,
when you pause on my lines,
when you sit inside the spaces I leave —
you’re reading someone
who was never “good at English.”
I mix letters.
I trip over spelling.
Sometimes my thoughts move faster
than my hands can catch them.
I’m dyslexic.
School made that feel like a flaw.
Like I was behind.
Like language wasn’t built for me.
But here’s the strange, beautiful thing —
I still had stories.
I still had metaphors.
I still had feelings that burned too bright
to stay silent.
So I wrote anyway.
Even when it was messy.
Even when it took longer.
Even when I doubted myself.
And now,
to see thousands of you
reading something
I once thought I wasn’t “good enough” to create —
that means more than you know.
Because this?
This isn’t perfect grammar.
This is persistence.
This is a mind that reads differently
but feels deeply.
So if my words ever resonate,
if they ever sit with you gently
or shake you awake —
know this:
They were written by someone
who was told they struggled with language,
but refused to be silent anyway.
And I’m grateful you’re here.
Truly.
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 8:38 PM UTC
I didn’t come here to be seen.
I came here to survive.
To empty my head somewhere
that wasn’t my chest.
To spill what was too heavy
to carry quietly.
I wrote
because I had to.
Because the feelings were loud.
Because silence was louder.
I didn’t think anyone
would really read it.
Not like this.
Not in numbers
that keep climbing
like they have somewhere to be.
I refresh
and it rises again.
And I just sit here
staring at it
thinking —
you’re actually here.
You’re actually reading.
All I wanted
was somewhere to vent.
Somewhere my mind could unravel
without judgement.
Somewhere I could let the chaos
have language.
I didn’t expect
thousands of eyes.
I didn’t expect
that the things that broke me
would reach beyond me.
I didn’t expect
that my quiet release
would become something shared.
And I don’t know who you are.
But thank you.
For stopping.
For feeling.
For not looking away.
For holding space for words
that were never polished —
just honest.
I’m shocked.
I’m grateful.
I’m still slightly in disbelief.
Because I came here
just trying to breathe.
And somehow
you’re breathing with me.
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 8:30 PM UTC
They raise their voice—
sharp as thunder breaking morning.
I sigh, roll my eyes,
but later find dinner kept warm,
a blanket folded at the foot of my bed,
the porch light left on.
School drains me—
assignments stack like bricks.
But my backpack holds books,
my teachers call me by name,
someone saves a chair for me.
Sometimes I ache
from being the one who always understands.
But my playlist still knows the lyrics
that hold me together.
And in the quiet,
I see the love that never left.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 10:56 PM UTC
You see, I’m naturally an introvert — quiet corners, deep
thoughts, the type to overthink a handshake. But life? Life
keeps putting me on stages, in conversations that feel like
marathons for my soul. So yeah, stepping out as an extrovert?
That’s not performance, that’s survival. A daily challenge
with no dress rehearsal.
I’m a softie — but not the breakable kind. No, this softness?
It’s pressure-cooked from hard times. It knows the weight of
silence, and how to turn pain into patience. I’m not here to
pretend to be hard — I’m here to show that being real is rarer.
Now, let’s talk love. I’m a full-blown lover boy — heart open,
arms wide, playlist ready. But don’t get it twisted — I’m not in
the business of having my love used as someone else’s stepping
stone. I’ve retired from being the emotional charity.
And my smile? Oh, it’s got layers. A whole palette of moods.
Bright for the world, but the darker shades? Those are reserved.
A private gallery. Only for the ones I cherish, the ones who earn
the right to see me unfiltered.
So if you meet me — don’t just notice the calm, or the kindness,
or the charm. Know there’s a storm I’ve already walked through
to be standing this still.
Jun 6, 2025
Jun 6, 2025 at 4:06 PM UTC
“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.” - Mark Rothko
To have the guts like Sinatra’s to declare
through regrets, tears and despair
“I got through it all and did it my way”
Oh, to trust the power in me and stay
always authentic and true
to my point of view
no matter how out of sync
or what proper poets think
The Rothko chapel with its paintings of black
took me completely aback
they seemed non-paintings to me
but I sat in the changing light and could see
the artistry in that quiet urban place
I could feel his gentle grace
he forced me to see his world
in his hues and strokes and curls
A Rothko or Sinatra I am not
but if in my lines are caught
the sweet or dark breath of my muse
if I speak in my voice with its hues
maybe a whiff of spirit there
will cast a piece of my soul and snare
someone’s musing causing them to write
and fling out their world in their light.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC