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.

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?

i feel wasted by hands that graced my body
that have handled me how no one else has touched me.
i live in guilt, ever pressing guilt
that i was used
in ways i did not understand
in ways that only a man can.
to feel discarded, like a body,
just a body, just a vessel,
of skin tied to skin
and when you looked within,
the dive left you weak,
you hesitated to swim.
now i’ve been wasted,
thrown upon the bed
of the truck that you once drove
that drove me off the edge.
when i contemplate too long,
i dream that i didn’t jump,
didn’t wash my body in the foamy sea spray.
i bathe in the guilt that splashes over my head,
ache for a lover that doesn’t regret me
like only a man can.