#generational
When we were young, my brother broke a bone on the playground
My family made fun of me because I cried and he didn’t
What they never understood about me was
That I loved everyone else more than I loved myself
That to watch anyone I loved suffer, was agony
That I would not hesitate to throw my body in front of someone else’s
That was how I became a punching bag for the next decade
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 10:08 AM UTC
Scratchy cardigans
And ruffled socks
Saucers of tea
Gone cold
Christmas dinner
She can't make
Anymore
head of the PTA
I see pictures of
Her
Cat eye glasses
And half smile
Doesn't reach the
Eyes
She never got
to say
No
Always the oldest daughter
Always the mother
Her brothers both
Died
And her sister pierced
Her
Own ears
And her daughters
Aren't catholic
Anymore
She never got
To fight
To be more
Than
Who we
Thought
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 7:02 PM UTC
Every morning
my father takes seven different vitamins
with the concentration
of a man repairing history manually
Omega-3
magnesium
vitamin D
quiet disappointment
He believes survival
is mostly chemical
Honestly
after the twentieth century
that seems reasonable
At breakfast
he reads headlines
with increasing suspicion
like someone checking weather reports
for signs of invasion
The kettle whistles
A neighbor starts drilling into the wall
at exactly 8:13 a.m.
the building continues
through pipes
through routines
through mineral supplements
My father swallows another capsule
with the exhausted dignity
of a country refusing to collapse publicly
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 12:55 PM UTC
My father believes
all problems can be solved
by either:
soup
silence
replacing the batteries
To be fair
this covers more situations
than psychology does
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 10:39 AM UTC
Patti started with poetry —
Writing prose that burned,
And because the night spoke
She then turned that prose
into sing-song that enlivened generation
after generation,
Compelling us to live now, not long,
Love now;
Run with horses,
Run our course, without the gong,
And be.
Just because…
Why not.
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 8:51 PM UTC
Is anything different
since the times of our grandparents—
since the time of our ancestors?
Or is it all the same?
Yes, we have technology.
But where we have the Internet,
they had books
or before, priests and wise men.
Yes, we have video games.
But where we play with a console,
they played with cards
or before, with their hands and feet.
Yes, we have newspapers.
But where we read The Times
they had criers
or before, gossips.
Maybe our "progress"
is just creating fancy, new formats
for things that already existed.
New tools and equipment
to make things easier,
yet more complex.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 12:59 PM UTC
When I was created-
In the image of my father,
Since he, too, was fated,
The image of his father.
When he left me behind,
And I was forced to act as such.
Was Satan too left blind,
To his holy father’s touch?
And as my own son grows,
Starving at love's empty altars.
His time runs thin, he knows,
His father’s love soon falters.
He'll leave his own domain,
As I, too, have abandoned mine,
And must I be to blame?
A familial curse in twine.
How a son’s tears might have dried,
Had his father's arms been open wide.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 3:14 PM UTC
Green slippery polyester
The rain slips down shushing shivery silence
Five fifth graders in cat shaped sleeping bags
We whispered our faults into the sleepy air
Said i’m so fat, but we didnt know why
The books that we read had slipped into our head
So we all huddled up and lamented our hips
God oh my god I am just so thick
Our mothers have taught us our value is in size
They inadvertently whispered us poisonous lies
We are not made for men
But movies taught us we are just our bra size
Now we are older and taller and mad
We resent yet we worship the culture that mad 5 year old me sad
Though our shorts have got shorter our confidence shrank
While outwardly we are bolder
Inside of our minds beauty standards smolder
Where do we learn to hate our thighs
Who taught us to hide food and get skinny through lies
We were only 10 but we started to cry
When we huddled around said a forbidden secret
Said we were pretty
But we didn’t mean it
Somewhere else in a tent in the rain
Shushing and shivering a soft breath on the nylon again
Another young girl sings the same old refrain
God oh god we should all look the same
We looked in the mirror and mean girls’d ourselves
Cause we have to be perfect like barbie on the shelf
When all a 5th grader wants is to be
Herself
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 8:49 PM UTC
I will be her biggest failure,
The one that went all wrong.
The first pancake of the batch–
Always burnt and quite oblong.
The one who saw the chaos
And fought it like her own war.
The one that was once rescued,
The guiltiest feeling she ever bore.
The one that saw the damage
Of an ego wounded man.
Who grew to find a new one,
Mama couldn't fix hers–
But I can.
I will always be her failure–
Look just like her and more.
Instead of choosing different,
I simply busted through
Her old barred doors.
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 5:54 PM UTC
She thought she wrote from sorrow–
From deep blue hopeless seas.
She really writes from anger,
Wheels turning faster as she seethes.
What's the point in speaking up,
When your plane just gets shot down?
Tired of rebuilding from the rubble,
She learned to vent without a sound.
They think she was born to run,
They couldn't be more wrong.
She was born to stay– and build,
But not to that cursed **** song.
Her father played that tune for years,
It reverberates in her bones.
So she never picked up a guitar–
Nor made anger her bands promo.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 11:04 AM UTC
Car Horn, what it used to mean:
Hey buddy pay attention, you almost hit me.
Car Horn, what it means today:
Welcome, to the accident.....
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 8:51 AM UTC
If I have no choice
but to rub off on you
Then maybe if we tried
the good parts might too
I suppose it all depends
on the parts we both choose
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 12:53 PM UTC
Winter begins to nip at the leaves of trees. The air has grown sharper, and the days are shortened. Summer was prosperous—endless days of work permitted the fields of golden crops that now lay ready for harvest. The farmer gazes upon his work, though from afar, so he could not tell you how they truly are—only how they are everything he could ever desire, if only he could reach them. His happiness could not extend any higher. He could live his life in peace then—and only then.
Yet there stands a wall, towering tall, leaving him confined to merely peeking through a hole he's found within his enclosure—he is bound to fall. Running low from past years’ harvest, the man begins to regret the time he spent building up the bricks. He wasn't aware of the things he was doing or the consequences that would follow, but alas, he's found himself here. Stuck—
stuck with no idea for escape, with the exception of perception. He’s able to find cracks to look beyond his wall—it is flawed.
Some bricks are older, withered, and cracked. They tell stories, each with their own scars told from generations long and far. Yet they still stand reminiscing on the former glory of brighter days, caught in a broken, dreamy haze. While others are newer, brighter, and neatly stacked. They hold a broken promise despite a smooth surface; submerged within their purpose is fear. They find comfort in stagnation with the place they've been thrown—after all, it’s what they've always known.
The more he gazes through his wall, the more he wishes he hadn't built it so tall. He only wanted to protect himself from the danger that could come from beyond, but the only danger he was in was a light burn from the summer’s son. The crops beyond are beautiful and bright, although not for long. Don’t forget—winter is yet to be strung along. As seasons shed skin, the farmer’s spirit wears thin; the frost is coming, and so is snow. But deep inside, the farmer knows—he must grow.
As he watches the plants through the seasons, they change.
They break free from their shells to feel the warmth they yearned for underground.
—deep within,
They transform; they root themselves with truth to purify the lies that fly airborne.
And if not to grow, then to dwell inside a cage, never admitting the mistakes they've made.
Trapped in the shell of a past self, they hold regret for the path not chosen.
and die without knowing themself.
If only the farmer could break free of the chains that his fearsome heart resides in, to free himself of lies that keep him hypnotized, he would no longer live his life in aversion.
He would see,
There resides a soul of warmth and light; it tells the tale of life free of fear—in the place far outside of here.
These walls no longer protect they only project the fractured inner lining of a man who spends his days whining, wishing to be free, despite overlooking that it is him who's holding the key—the key to freedom for the place he dreams to be; but corruption of thought keeps him caught in a rut. And soon, the tie to life will be cut. They’ll wither away, and here the farmer will stay, trapped in his dismay. He needs to break away from his chains and find trust within to see. It is his mind in need of change.
—Yet a fool he will stay, because he cannot walk away. To rupture the wall is a task too tall. It has kept his heart hidden as generations before.
It's kept the pain away but still left his soul sore. After so long, this false protection is in need of demolition.
If not down with the wall, then to untouched harvest death will call, and to waste it will go—covered by ice and covered by snow. It’s such a shame to let go. If unable to change fate, the wall prevails; then when time comes to see the hail, the farmer's skin will turn pale.
Now opposed to the wall, this frittered farmer will fall.
He will set the final brick piece.
Then maybe his soul will find the peace he could not seem to reach.
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 5:29 PM UTC
Spiders everywhere
Drowning in terror
Safety was never my birthright
Monkey mind corned into a frenzy
No space for my human to live in peace
Autonomy revoked
Voice muzzled
There's no more, me
can't wash away this dirtiness
Can't wait to numb my heart again
Aren't these thoughts mine?
Why do they hate me so?
Borrowed.
This is why we go to church.
To bleach out this brain stain
My DNA whispers demons
Collected through this body's amalgamation
They hide in the darkest nooks of the corridor of time
Waiting to encroach one more time
Oh, pure innocence.
I lament.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 10:58 AM UTC
I can't speak the truth that feeds on my wounds
I can't say because I survive on his provision
My voice doesn't matter, who will value me
I weep inwards, salting this bitterness
I go crazy because I can never be truly free
I loop in his betrayal
To my heart
my mind
my soul
...
my body
I was evicted out of the only safe harbour I had
Grandma said no grandpa!
Our bodies and voices are being harvested by our own!
They are yours, for your pleasure only
At our expense you've found your glory
Inherited this suffering because you did anyway
To survive, we gaslight ourselves
I can't bare to continue to live with this truth
So I breathe from lies
I put on my glasses to bypass this irk
My kids need me
My kids need to survive this monster
Let me be brave
Let me be brave just enough to live on these lies
Because their lives depend on it!
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 4:17 PM UTC
I was born into a famine
that had nothing to do with bread.
Love was rationed in screams or absence,
served in scraps too small to even fill a sparrow.
It folded children into masks,
teaching them to barter their bodies,
their brilliance,
for one spoonful of being seen.
Starvation is generational —
My grandparents wore silence
like a second skin,
their hunger pressed into my parents’ palms
who learned to mistake
approval for affection,
discipline for devotion.
By the time it reached us,
the scarcity became lineage:
my sister and I
daughters of starvation,
gnaw on shadows,
calling it comfort,
rehearsing the same ache —
our bodies learning
to beg in disguises.
Late twenties,
and the fridge hums louder than I do
bones hum with the ache of it,
eyes swollen from begging the air
to answer back.
I peel the silence open with my teeth.
There’s nothing inside.
I am tired of carrying
an empty bowl across centuries.
I will not pass down
a hollow mouth.
May my hands
unlearn famine.
Love will be abundant
in the soil I leave behind.
- V
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:01 AM UTC
The baby sea turtle gets abandoned
Abandoned by its parents
The baby sea turtle needs their mother
1 in 10,000
Oh, 1 in 10,000 live to adulthood
That 1 in 10,000
Moves on to abandon their children
Ironic, isn’t it?
How parents can forget the struggle
Faced in their very own childhood
How the children grow up to be
Just like the horrors they swore to avoid
Yes, I feel bad for the baby sea turtles
But it’s their culture—
Their lives and the expectations
But to feel for the turtles is to feel for you
Your parents didn’t abandon you
Oh no, sweetie, worse—
Your parents isolated you
Mistreated you
And to feel for the turtles is to feel for you
Feel for the life you didn’t choose
It’s not the culture
That causes the forced isolation
It’s the cold hearts and the failed system
Oh, who is the sea turtle?
I’m not sure
But to feel for the turtles is to feel for you
Even when there is nothing to do
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 8:30 PM UTC
LIKE A COMMON POPPY, WOMEN IN MY LINEAGE ARE MEADOWS,
SELF-SEEDING THERE OWN MEADOW AROUND THEM,
ONLY NEEDING RAIN
LONG LINE OF ABUSE, BETRAYAL, ABANDONMENT,
FROM MOTHER TO FATHER, MEN TO WOMEN
PARENTS ABANDONING, CHASING YOU DOWN,
YOUR MOTHERS FLEETING, SHE IGNORES YOU
SIPPIN ON WINE BOTTLES,
GIRLS WHO WANTED A FAMILY WHO LOVED,
APPRECIATED THEM AND WHO WOULD PICK THEM FROM THE GARDEN.
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 5:36 PM UTC
Her bad mood
Tries to intrude
On conversation,
On laughter
Her lack of power
Compels her to cower
Behind a false sense
Of tyrannical control
Her own home and head
Never gave sanctuary; instead
They fostered hostility
And made her feel blind
Blind when searching for
Places with an open door
With a place to lie down
And to quiet all sound
She’s fighting herself inside
Can’t say she never tried
When the battle leaves her mind
And infects the entire family line
My bad mood
Tends to intrude
On conversation,
On laughter
And I’m sorry
But I learned it from you
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC
You want to be a family, I admire that- I really do
I think too much has happened, in the past, between me and you.
See I learned what soft love feels like,
That I don't think you can give
I don't look at you with stars in my eyes,
Why couldn't you change when I did?
Once you were my universe, and like women before me I held you down
But I don't want my daughter to be generationally cursed to be a man's clown.
They say we're from a line of strong women, and yes I do believe that's true, but I don't want to be strong for sticking it out, I want the strength to forever leave you.
Maybe this is the fork in the road, where my mother chose to stick it out,
I can't raise a daughter on fake love of that I have no doubt.
Really it's up to me, I can't blame great grandma for this gift,
I always thought narcissists move on to a new supply but this man tirelessly tightens his grip.
I can't ask the moon for answers, no- this has to come deep from within, will I have the courage to keep the **** away? Or will I keep our matronly traditional trend?
May 15, 2025
May 15, 2025 at 1:47 PM UTC
Ponder this…
We were never born of sin.
We were born in God’s image.
And God is not broken.
He is perfect.
He is love.
He is good.
He is whole.
So we were born whole.
Sin is real…
But it is not our origin.
It is not our identity.
It’s a distortion, a distraction—
A veil over the truth.
And the truth is…
You were never broken.
You were always loved.
You are still whole.
Remember who you are.
Remember that inner voice calling you back.
Heal this generation.
Rewire our children to know:
We are not born of sin.
We are born of wholeness.
And if we remember…
Our children’s children can know generational peace.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 6:58 AM UTC
_Chapter I: Disappear Politely_
There was a town with one stoplight
and two churches that hated each other.
The first church tolled its bell louder.
The second buried its girls quieter.
It was the kind of place where grief
was passed down like heirloom silver:
polished, inherited, never touched—
except to prove they had it.
Where the girls learned early
how to disappear with grace.
They say the first one—Marlena—
just walked into the lake,
mouth full of wedding vows
no one had asked her to write,
and her prom dress still zipped.
The older preacher saw her go under—
didn’t move,
just turned the page in his sermon book.
Said later:
_Girls like that always need a stage._
The parents told their daughters
not to cause trouble.
Told them to smile more,
leak less,
bloom quietly,
be good—
or
be gone.
Then cried when they vanished.
Then lit candles.
Then said things like
“God has a plan,”
to keep from imagining
what the plan required.
_Chapter II: The Girls Who Spoke Wrong_
A girl named Finch refused to sleep.
Said her dreams were trying to arrest her.
One morning they found her curled in the middle of Saint Street—
like a comma the sentence abandoned.
A knife in her boot,
daffodils blooming from her belt loops—
like she dressed for both war and funeral.
Finch was buried upright.
Because *God forbid
a girl ever be horizontal
without permission.*
The sheriff was mailed her journals
with no return address.
He read one page.
Paused.
Coughed once, like the truth had teeth.
Lit a match.
Said it wasn’t evidence—
said it was dangerous
for a girl to write things
no one asked her to say.
No one spoke at her funeral,
but every girl showed up
with one eye painted black
and the other wide open.
Not make-up.
Not bruise.
Just warning.
Chapter III: Half-Gone Girls & Other Ghosts
And then there was Kiernan.
Not missing. Not dead.
Just quieter than the story required.
She stuffed cotton in her ears at church—
said the hymns gave her splinters.
Talked to the mirror like it owed her something—
maybe a mouth,
maybe mercy.
She was the one who found Finch’s daffodils first.
Picked one. Pressed it in her journal.
It left a bruise that smelled like vinegar.
No one noticed
when she stopped raising her hand in class.
Her poems shrank to whispers,
signed with initials—
like she knew full names
made better gravestones.
Someone checked out Kiernan’s old library book last week.
All the margins were full of names.
None of them hers.
They say she’s still here.
Just not all the way.
A girl named Sunday
stopped speaking at eleven,
and was last seen barefoot
on the second church roof,
humming a song no one taught her.
Sunday didn’t leave a note.
She figured we’d write one for her anyway.
Some girls disappear all at once.
Others just run out of language.
Clementine left love letters in lockers
signed with other girls’ names.
Said she was trying to ‘redistribute the damage.’
She stood in for a girl during detention.
Another time, for a funeral.
Once, Clementine blew out candles
on a cake that wasn’t hers.
Said the girl didn’t want to age that year.
Said she’d hold the wish for her—
just in case.
She disappeared on picture day,
but her face showed up
in three other portraits—
blurry,
but unmistakable.
The town still isn’t sure who she was.
But the girls remember:
she took their worst days
and wore them like a uniform.
Chapter IV: Standing Room Only
They say
the town
got sick
of digging.
Said
it took
too much
space
to bury
the girls
properly.
So
they
stopped.
Started
placing
them
upright
in the
dirt,
palms
pressed
together,
like
they
were
praying
for
revenge.
Or maybe
just
patience.
The lake only takes
what’s already broken.
It’s polite like that.
It waits.
They renamed it Mirrorlake—
but no one looks in.
The daffodils grow back faster
when girls go missing—
brighter, almost smug,
petals too yellow
to mean joy anymore.
No one picks them.
No one dares.
The earth hums lullabies
in girls’ names,
soft as bone dust,
steady as sleep.
There’s never been enough room
for a girl to rest here—
just enough to pose her pretty.
They renamed the cemetery “Resthill,”
but every girl calls it
The Standing Room.
Chapter V: When the Dirt Starts Speaking
Someone said they saw Clementine
in the mirror at the gas station—
wearing someone else’s smile
and mouthing:
“wrong year.”
The school yearbook stopped printing senior quotes.
Too many girls used them wrong.
Too many girls turned them into prophecies.
Too many girls were never seniors.
They didn’t bury them standing up to honor them.
They just didn’t want to kneel.
The stoplight has started skipping green,
like the town doesn’t believe in Go anymore.
Just flickers yellow,
then red,
then red again.
A warning no one heeds.
A rhythm only the girls who are left
seem to follow.
Some nights,
the air smells like perfume
that doesn’t belong to anyone.
And the church bells ring without being touched.
Only once.
Always just once.
At 3:03 a.m.
Now no one says the word ‘daughter’
without spitting.
No one swims in the lake.
The pews sigh
when the mothers sit down.
Both preachers said:
“Trust God.
Some girls just love the dark.”
But some nights—
when the ground hums low
and the stoplight flickers
yellowyellowred—
you can hear a knocking under your feet,
steady as a metronome.
The ground is tired of being quiet.
The roots have run out of room.
The girls are knocking louder—
not begging.
Not asking.
Just letting us know:
they remember.
And—
Apr 6, 2025
Apr 6, 2025 at 10:50 AM UTC