#map
i glare at the mirror
slowly tracing the jagged bones
that rise beneath my skin
shown through bruises and blisters
a worn‑out map
charting every place I’ve passed through
to become this shape.
each sharp edge grinds
against my flaking skin,
carved by the stares of others
by doubts that linger too long
by silent screams
becoming coil around my throat
like climbing creeping ivy
stealing my hopeless breath
leaving these imperfect lines
carved across me.
i am still grasping for air
as the ivy tightens slowly each day
allowing my bones to pierce
till they bleed
turning my map into a skeleton
ending this story.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 6:17 PM UTC
You’re like an old map,
Rewritten in time.
I trace your constellations,
Navigating this world.
Your eyes, my eyes;
Echoing in every way.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 7:28 AM UTC
In the dream, the river ran uphill,
carrying houses like driftwood
toward a sky the colour of bruised glass.
I traced its course in ink,
my pen snagging where the current turned.
By morning, the lines had settled into streets I knew –
and the name of the man who drowned there
rose like a landmark I’d forgotten I’d visited.
Each new commission arrived folded like a secret,
ink feathering into shapes I half remembered:
a bridge bent into a question,
a forest where every tree hummed a different note.
I pinned them to the wall
and watched the dream stitch itself together—
until a childhood back lane
opened between two impossible mountains.
The final map arrived at dawn,
its creases like the palm of a hand
I’d once held.
The questioning bridge, the clock without hands,
the river running uphill – all converged
on a vacant lot two streets from my door.
At dusk I stood in air
heavy with rain that hadn’t yet fallen
and saw the outline of a house that no longer stood.
In my mind, the rooms were lit,
and someone I had lost long ago
waited at the window,
as if I’d only stepped out for rain.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 11:01 AM UTC
This treasure map is a riddle
It seems to be weathered by time
You know what the bounty is to be
but there is no clear path
Dotted lines
Winding trails
Your body has tired from the journey
Your heart has wavered
But you paved your own trail
Climbed
Crawled
Found your way
Here is another map
It is a blank sheet
It is ready when you are
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 9:22 PM UTC
A scar by its nature
is not the same as first flesh.
Not less, but not the same.
A scar speaks a different story.
It maps a separate quest.
A scar by its nature
tells of healing,
and this in itself
entails a preface
of wounds and suffering.
My scars by their nature
recount survival.
And that is a story,
that is a map
worth following.
And I am encouraged,
despite my years, to travel
beyond these maps,
to tell fresh tales
and perhaps pick up
fresh scars.
Scars are by their nature
a natural consequence
of paths followed,
of life lived.
I've learned never to trust
a face that bears no blemish.
Oct 18, 2025
Oct 18, 2025 at 7:33 AM UTC
Once,
they handed her a map—
blank,
except for the words:
“You are here.”
But here kept shifting.
One day, it was sorrow
shaped like a fox
with silver fur and eyes like unspoken apologies.
The next, it was joy—
a balloon beast that floated just out of reach,
tied to a string knotted around her ribcage.
She wandered.
Through the Forest of Almosts,
past the Swamp of Not-Yets,
into the valley where shame
whispered her name backward
so she wouldn’t recognize herself.
She wore her fears like jewelry.
Polished it.
Let it glint in the dark.
She met Anger
It didn’t scream.
It built towers from her old voices
and dared her to climb
without a rope.
She met Silence, too—
it moved like fog
and tasted like metal.
It offered her tea
and made her weep into her own hands
without asking why.
And still, she walked.
One night,
the moon opened a door in the ground.
She fell into a forest
with no sky,
where trees grew upside-down
and every path looked like a wound.
At the center,
she found a mirror
half-buried in the belly of a tree.
It didn’t show her face.
It showed her story—
stitched from shadows and second chances,
frayed,
but still holding.
And for the first time,
she didn’t want to erase anything.
She folded the blank map
into a boat.
Set it in the river.
And walked home—
not knowing the way,
but knowing she was the compass.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 1:32 PM UTC
We humans are trapped in illusion of emotions,
We humans are too fragile to be in sound motion,
We humans are hollow void,
Empty of everything that ignites the oil,
We humans are, pretending to be armoured stones,
So afraid of people, to eyes humans are prone.
Desperately empty yet filled with hopes,
Happily bleeding on path to adorn,
Like an orchestra filled with distracted hosts,
We humans, build castles of sand,
Yet we forget to keep away jinxed hand,
We humans are trapped in wraps,
Wraps of our over-love and understanding that lacks,
"If I had the map, i would get out of this track."
Oh but you deceive yourself like a brat,
Dragging your cores in maze that mirror you as vulnerable man,
Masking the fact, that you can!
Oh my dear!!
You unsee the keys and cry over locks,
You know the ways out ,
but decide to stay in doubt.
For you are always ignoring the oracle that surrounds.
That's the tragedy of you humans,
Who are trapped in emotions and frown.
Feb 17, 2025
Feb 17, 2025 at 7:51 AM UTC
Each word is a map to a shared memory
Sometimes my directions are incorrect
Or may take you on a scenic route
Such that you forget the destination until you reach it
I guide by landmarks
The names of roads are all forgotten by me
Only their twists and turns remain in my mind
Aug 21, 2024
Aug 21, 2024 at 9:00 AM UTC
The moon did me a favor today
It didn't drag me down.
It made me look up.
Where else is future found?
Besides our
Hearts and Minds.
In the sky where you will find Birds.
And wings
With golden strings
Threading
An imperfect map.
I'm still looking up.
Jun 3, 2024
Jun 3, 2024 at 10:43 AM UTC
Trying to navigate these bumpy waves,
While maintaining my gaze with my goals.
It's more difficult than the past me could've ever known.
There's a long dotted line that swerves along my map.
I've marked each stop for when I'll take naps,
but I'm still struggling with unexpected crashes.
A wave flips my boat and and it feels like a million minutes go by
Before I patch things up and things feel okay inside.
It feels like a tear in my map,
the map that lines my heart.
How do you recover when someone from your crew falls overboard?
What if something embarrassing happens during my journey and I can't press restart?
These are the kinds of questions I stay up all night asking the stars.
Oct 8, 2023
Oct 8, 2023 at 9:07 PM UTC
I Stick the whole world to my wall
and Notice
things that I almost Understand their real meaning
Nov 22, 2021
Nov 22, 2021 at 2:18 PM UTC
“Keep your nose clean”
His intent was momentous.
An ant like phrase,
with mountainous exorcism.
“Keep your nose clean”,
His voice like Zeus,
thunderously subtle.
Echoing and vibrating,
through regret, sin,
and fueled debauchery.
This phrase kept me true,
on-course through,
dark seas.
A map to navigate,
knowing when,
to steer away.
“Keep your nose clean”
I hear him still,
his voice sobering.
“Yes, grandfather.”
“I will”
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 9:36 AM UTC
I lift my pen at the scent of the coming rain.
The wind rises, and I sense the pain gathering strength
and after a beat or two, the drizzle scouts my face
- but I smile.
I have my compass, the North Star
and the maps I made before.
I can still climb this new stanza
navigate past the memorials,
through to the meadows beyond
and I can rest there, refill my pen with the rain
and write again.
Aug 1, 2021
Aug 1, 2021 at 5:21 AM UTC
I failed to love round, but fallen flat,
My head slumps down, over an ancient map,
My eyes roll back, over the mappa mundi verge,
Where waterfalls purl, and the sea serpent-sleep lies curled.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 9:08 PM UTC
Starting from the Euphrates
wayfinding a trail toward Babylonia
to divert her waters
mapping her ancient towers
her eyes
her desires
her pudendum
egressing out of the bitter river
surrounding her temple
until enlightenment
glisters betwixt the frangible pages of her
Dialogue of Pessimism:
~
*"Who is so tall as to ascend to heaven?
Who is so broad as to encompass the entire world?"*
~
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 10:17 PM UTC
~
*This level crossing--
stick,
sand,
and broken glass,
from naming to numbering,
names tend to define,
numbers are neutral,
they count the roads, follow their failings--
flow,
force,
and absorb,
dictated by a headlight,
I feel nearer to the surface of us,
motion made of visible memories, arrested in space,
mere unorganized explosions of random energy,
and therefore meaningless--
to fall in love with our progress,
and yet be outgrown by it.*
~
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 7:33 PM UTC
No one catch up to me
I am far too gone
There is no map to place I go
There are no lingering footsteps to where I am
You'd miss me
for a day or two
but then, time fixes it
and I'd be a distant memory
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 3:13 PM UTC
just before never...
*my last performance,
the words came original
and easy, unlike all its
predecessors; someone
drew me a map of my
life and times, cities,
countries, and roads
well travelled and a few,
not too. Mountains, each with
a woman’s name, who carried
care, until she couldn’t, didn’t, and
time’s weathering returned us
individually into hillocks, and then
rain eroded us back into old soil.
the broad highways and back roads,
always snaking away, fork-forcing
directional choices, usually taking the
wrong way, the easy and safe one,
and how I have come to hate those
words: easy and safe, for they
are the pill combo that leaves you
for dead, dulling the questioning
one inquires of oneself, late, reluctantly.
But there is always the unexpected.
Today I saw a sunset on the Hudson
River with a humpback whale blowing,
running beside a river ferry, plowing the
waters back and forth tween two states.
Lived by this river for s e v e n t y years,
and have seen the whales in many places,
but here, in my city, in the river of my youth,
never.
and I got the sign, message received, there
are still sights and poems to behold, arms to
embrace, youngers to guide if they’ll permit it.
so this title, these two, just before,
this day, poem, came to remind me, the
days map remains unfinished, there are lands
and voyages and poems still awaiting drawing,
and it is tomorrow, and just before tomorrow, that
recording insistent demands, and a map is just a
moment in time, until just before...never*
5:28 AM Thu Dec 10
2020 (a year deserving
of its own line and ending)
Manhattan, between two rivers.
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 5:48 AM UTC
I lift my pen from the page
and smell the coming rain
I hear the rising wind
and sense gathering pain
and as the scouting drizzle coats my face
I smile, because I have my compass
I have a North Star and the maps I made
when I came this way before
I know I can navigate these hills
and I can form a new stanza
to take me through to the meadows
that wait for me there
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 7:10 AM UTC
The map is not the territory, but oh, how we need the map and a trusted map maker. And who better, but the maker of all.
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 7:05 AM UTC
Looking at the map,
my eyes find their way to the unnamed borders,
the many lines that divide the land
and the sea,
the civilised,
and the savage.
I dimly wonder
if those lines are truly the ends of the earth,
or are they beginnings of a new world?
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 11:33 AM UTC
I was remembering when we were new
Love was an uncharted land
Our time was spent navigating
Mapping bodies with both hands
And tough times built us mountains
To ensure we would grow strong
Standing solid through the struggle
You were my rock when things went wrong
All the lovely sleepless nights
Spent texting thoughts and fears
Were the beginning of our voyage
We were unwitting pioneers
Although the departure was scary
I knew I had no choice but to start
Despite the danger and risk of failure
Instincts said 'follow your heart'
So we decided to set sail together
Though neither had yet steered a ship
Our commitment and passion kept us above waves
The duration of our trip
When the water turned rough and choppy
We almost began to sink
On the paper used to draw our course
Temporarily ran out of ink
It was you who saved me from drowning
When I foolishly jumped off the boat
Abandoned our vessel in fear of shipwreck
With one oar you made us float
Forgiveness forged a way to shore
Filled the pen with tears and blood
So we could continue cartography
From the place the picture smudged
We have come a great distance since that day
But still have a lot left to explore
Though the diagram of our hearts is complete
Life is still showing us more
Thick woods
Green fields
Dry deserts of sand
Our feelings guide us through it all
Our graph gets larger as time passes
And harder for you I fall
The route we travelled was complex
There were easier by far
But the difficult terrain molded us
Into the people we now are
Our direction was not influenced
But entirely our own
I'd rather our tumultuous journey
Than a simple one alone
Because you are my final destination
No matter where our path may lead
Location is irrelevant
When your arms are the only home I need
I never knew our relationship
Would be the atlas discovered
But I hope you realize I'm grateful
For each millimeter uncovered
I can't explain the overwhelming attraction
The magnetism connecting us two
But from the moment we met one thing was certain
My soul's compass pointed straight to you
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 11:46 PM UTC
"I'm okay" "I'm okay"
whispering to myself, hanging upside down
tears dripping down to my toes
when I break down mid stretch.
"Just breathe darling"
I coach myself, nearly rocking back and forth
on the wooden floor
while the clock reads 12
and everyone else is asleep.
The muscles wrapped around my chest
and my back draw tighter still
-like piano strings:
they wait, poised for the merest sound of footsteps.
And the air doesn't quite find my lungs
my mind won't come off high speed
and I thrash through piles of *******
to find the water-stained, warped, ripped notebook
and a gaudy pen.
Then I begin to scribble, compose,
quietly wail and rage
as stroke for stroke
I map out my traumas and my guilt;
slowly tattooing my hurt
like poetry on my skin.
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 6:18 AM UTC