***** and broken
dreams fall like
slanted rain in
a hurricane.
Mud-faced youth
plummet to the
ground.

You must walk through summer’s blaze,
where heat and haste paint every day,
with golden hours that slip too fast,
and dreams that burn but never last.

Only then, as shadows grow,
will autumn call you soft and slow,
with colors bright yet fading fast—
the calm that follows seasons past.

People like me
don’t speak much—
we read silence
like it’s scripture,
watching the way shadows fall
on people’s faces
when truth gets too loud.

I learned early
that softness
gets mistaken
for weakness,
and honesty
for cruelty.

So I became
a quiet kind of storm—
rage in my ribs,
kindness in my palms,
resentment
sitting neatly behind my teeth.

Some days I’m tired
of pretending I don’t feel it all.
Of swallowing the world
just to keep peace
with people who
would never carry
a piece of me.

But I still stay quiet.
Because people like me
don’t speak much.
We bleed in poems.