And so I understood
At 22, what my mother felt
Waiting for someone
To love them back

And so I’ve understood
The anger in her eyes
In sight of my father
Who never came back

I promised myself
That I will live in this life
With so much joy
In respect to my mom who wanted nothing
But to see me be loved and to love

Yet I found myself
In the shoes of my mother’s past
Oh like I’ve never witnessed this before
May I last a day without you

A letter to a lover
A letter to a friend
A letter to a foe
From a past you want to mend.

The rust colored paper
With water stains the width of eyes.
The bright red lips
Marking passion inside
Or the solemn calligraphy
Of a recipient unaware.
This box of unsent letters
Filled with that which won't be seen.

Worries that won't be said aloud
And thoughts that lay dead.
Emotions that once moved a pen,
Now lay dormant with no end.

You got those thoughts off your chest,
And to send it?
Well, you tried your best.
Your fingers tremble with hope and regret.
One day you'll send it
But not quite yet.

Hold tight dear friend
To your letter with secrets.
You wrote down the words you Just couldn't get out,
Timeless, yet dated.

They're words that once mattered
Things that stirred so deep.
Just write them down and put them in the box
Under the letters unsent,
Unaddressed beneath the massive heap.

I hope that you got to sleep a little bit if not a lot
I know that rest doesn’t come easy
But when it does take full advantage
some days I can’t sleep
but when I do forgive me
the hardest thing for me to do is open my eyes
my eyes were open at 4:21 am
I close my eyes
for one minute
and it’s 5:30 am
Where does time go
It’s a mystery
I want you to know that
I do care
Your the first and last thing that comes to mind
you are never alone
remember I’m here
remember that
if this were in person
would you drag me out of bed
I would actually appreciate that a lot
Because the hardest part of my days
are
getting and getting out of bed
But one of the many qualities
I could say I appreciate about you is
being there
every step of the way
that’s the blessing
of having someone in your life that
loves love
and someone that truly cares
I hope you have an amazing day
*blowing kisses ur way !

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

We are but a speck of dust,
Gold and valuable, but
Small and crushable.
Worthy of all love, and yet
Wounded we live, held.

there is
no beggar that isn’t starving for a feast
of the heart, of substance.
i beg at your doorstep, count the minutes i wait with bulging eyes.
your mother is by the television,
your sister gathers newspaper clippings,
and you, are you even home?
is your light on?
i can’t tell.
and if i beg for the love you give,
will it feel just as i’ve dreamed
or will it feel like complacency?
there’s dinner being cooked
and the steam rises to the ceiling.
my stomach growls,
but the door remains closed
and you do not come down the stairs.
i watch through the window,
are you even home?
do you even notice my shivering,
my eagerness?
would you even love the person i’ve become,
the beggar pleading at your door
to just give her substance, love?