"oen" poems
* "Our cattle graze, the wind breathes." -Garcilaso *
It was my ancient voice
ignorant of thick bitter juices.
I sense it lapping my feet
beneath the fragile wet ferns.
Ay, ancient voice of my love,
ay, voice of my truth,
ay, voice of my open flank,
when all the roses flowed from my tongue
and grass knew nothing of horses' impassive teeth!
Here are you drinking my blood,
drinking my tedious childhood mood,
while in the wind my eyes are bludgeoned
by aluminum and drunken voices.
Let me pass the gates
where Eve eats ants
and Adam seeds dazzled fish.
Let me return, manikins with horns,
to the grove where I stretch
and leap with joy.
I know a rite so secret
it requires an old rusty pin
and I know the horror of open eyes
on a plate's concrete surface.
But I want neither world nor dream, nor divine voice,
I want my freedom, my human love
in the darkest corner of breeze that no oen wants.
My human love!
Those hounds of the sea chase each other
and the wind spies on careless tree trunks.
Oh ancient voice, burn with your tongue
this voice of tin and talc!
I long to weep because I want to,
as the children cry in the last row,
because I'm not man, nor poet, nor leaf,
but only a wounded pulse circling the things of the other side
I want to cry out speaking my name,
rose, child and fir-tree beside this lake,
to speak my truth as a man of blood
slay in myself teh tricks and turns of the word.
No, no. I'm not asking, I, desire,
voice, my freedom that laps my hands.
In the labyrinth of screens it's my nakedness receives
the moon of punishment and the ash-drowned clock.
Thus I was speaking.
Thus I was speaking with Saturn stopped the trains,
when the fod and Dream and Death were seeking me.
Seeking me
where the cows, with tiny pages' feet, bellow
and where my body floats between opposing fulcrums.
5.7k
More Than Enough
I see you when you think I don’t—
When shame creeps in between each bite.
When food becomes a kind of shield,
A way to feel just something right.
I hear the silence after meals,
The self-blame soft beneath your breath.
You smile through it, but I can feel
The ache that lingers underneath.
It’s not about the food alone—
It’s comfort, pain, escape, regret.
It’s every wound you’ve never named,
And every need you’ve never met.
And I won’t shame the way you cope,
Or say you’re weak, or make you hide.
I know how loud the darkness speaks
When you’re alone with what’s inside.
I’m not here to count or fix—
I’m here to see and stay and care.
To hold you when the numbness hits,
To love you through the wear and tear.
You are not broken by your hunger,
Not unworthy when you fall.
You are human, needing healing—
And you don’t have to have it all.
Let’s talk when you are ready, love.
Or sit in quiet if that’s best.
Let’s cry, or laugh, or walk, or rest—
Together, not a single test.
You don’t have to earn this love.
It isn’t measured, weighed, or scored.
You are more than all your battles.
You are someone I adore.
So when it hurts, and when it swells—
The craving, guilt, the heavy air—
Just take my hand, and breathe again.
You’re not alone. I’m always there.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 1:50 PM UTC
The Poems I Wasn’t Meant to Read
I found the page tucked in a book,
Its fold too neat, like care it took.
A poem, simple—sharp and cold,
A story inked but never told.
“I never loved him,” the first line read,
And something in me quietly bled.
Not anger, not a bitter tone—
Just a truth that stood there, all alone.
No fire, no fight—just frozen air,
A silence shaped like no one there.
Not a trace of me inside the frame,
Not even shadow tied to name.
Elsewhere, a hidden file—other notes,
One more poem that she wrote.
A man unknown, his presence far,
Drawn in lines too bold, too clear.
A laugh, a touch, a night of stars,
A place where nothing broke or scarred.
“So much between us left unsaid,”
“Now he’s married and a dad”
That final line just rang and bled.
And it was then I felt the sting—
Not just of him, but everything.
The weight of all we never voiced,
Of moments passed, of silent choice.
The dreams we named but never chased,
The goals that time and fear erased.
The plans we whispered half-awake,
Too fragile for the light to take.
The things we needed, never asked,
Desires buried, faces masked.
The nights we held but didn’t feel,
The love we wanted to be real.
And maybe that’s the cruelest cut—
Not lies, not lust, not breaking trust—
But words we held and never freed,
And poems I was never meant to read.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 2:13 PM UTC
Something Beautiful After
I didn’t expect to want again. Touch had become a memory, a ghost I nodded to in passing—familiar, but too far.
Then you walked in like a secret I didn’t know I was still allowed to want. Not loud. Not demanding. Just sure.
Your hands didn’t ask questions—they knew answers. Like they’d waited their whole life
to map this skin I’d buried under silence.
You kissed me like it wasn’t a reward, but a right—like you’d earned it just by seeing me
and staying.
Staying when I trembled.
Staying when I burned.
This isn’t a rebound.
This is a rise.
There’s something holy in how you undress me—not just my body, but the layers I kept hidden even from myself.
With you, it isn’t just passion—it’s permission.
To want.
To ache.
To feel everything again.
Lips like an offering.
Fingers like truth.
Breathless doesn’t mean broken anymore.
You don’t heal me—you remind me I’m already healing. That I’m not ruined, I’m ripe.
And now—now I know the difference between being needed and being wanted.
And God, you want me. Like fire wants air. Like night wants skin. Like I want you—with everything I was once afraid to give.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 11:37 PM UTC
Not Your Students
In classrooms cold where chalk once sang, A silence fell that bruised, then rang—Not with words, but with the stare, The kind that strips you standing there.
You raised your hand, a hopeful reach,
But hope was not what they would teach. Instead, a smirk, a cutting tone—
You left that room more skin than bone.
Then home, where love should be a balm, became a storm disguised as calm.
A voice that picked at every seam,
Till you forgot your right to dream.
“You call that clean?” “You think that’s smart?” “I’ll do it myself” was the remark. Each word a dagger masked as art. Too loud, too late, too much, too thin— No place outside, no peace within.
Their love was weighed in harsh critique, A scorecard life, a twisted streak. You shrank to fit their brittle mold, While they stood proud, and you grew cold.
And still you moved through every day,
A ghost in roles you couldn’t play.
The teacher, spouse—they wore their masks—While you were buried under tasks.
But here you are, still breathing deep,
Though night has stolen countless sleep.
Your truth is not a whispered lie—It grows each time you dare to cry.
One day, the mirrors will not lie,
And you will see the reason why
The ones who break us hide their shame— Because you carry all their flame.
Let it burn, and light your name.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 1:25 PM UTC
Miles of Grit
Before the dawn, I rise and ride,
Legs like stone, lungs stretched wide.
Gravel roads become my prayer,
Spinning through pain, gasping air.
Unbound waits—one hundred miles,
Through Kansas dust and brutal trials.
Each climb I face, each breath I take,
Is built on choices others break.
I’ve trained through storms, through aching bone,
Pushed past the doubt when I felt alone.
Skipped birthdays, dinners, bedtime songs—
Chasing this dream for far too long.
But guilt, it rides my back some days,
When pedals steal the time that stays.
My family waits while I chase more,
Yet still they meet me at the door.
And then—the race.
Heat and grit beneath the sky,
Mile after mile, I wonder why.
Cramped legs scream, the wind cuts deep,
I think of every night I lost sleep.
But near the end—I see them there,
My son, my love, their arms in air.
Cheering loud with muddy pride,
As tears break loose I’ve tried to hide.
This isn’t just about the ride.
It’s every moment I almost cried.
It’s every hill, each stubborn scar,
And all the hearts who brought me far.
The finish line—just gravel and paint,
But it holds the weight of what I ain’t:
A quitter. A shadow. A halfway flame—
No. I burned through every claim.
Proud not just of what I did,
But of the ones who let me live
This wild, relentless, arduous dream—
Together stronger. A family team.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 10:35 AM UTC
The Weight I Carry (And What It Costs)
The past is not behind me—
It walks beside me still.
It speaks in quiet moments
And bends me to its will.
It lingers in the sterile light,
It echoes in the hum
Of monitors and whispered prayers
When hope is all but gone.
The present isn’t softer—
It pulses through the pain
Of patients breaking in my hands,
Of lives I can’t sustain.
But I know how to sit with fear,
I’ve breathed through it for years.
I’ve felt the dark press on my chest
And fought back drowning tears.
PTSD has marked my soul,
But made me sharp and kind.
I see the wounds behind the words
That others never find.
In scrubs, I’m strong, I speak with calm,
I know just what to do.
At work, I give what’s left of me
To help someone pull through.
But when I cross the threshold home,
The weight becomes too loud.
The walls expect a gentler me
Than what I’m still allowed.
The stress I never fully name,
It follows me inside.
And suddenly, the smallest things
Feel like a wave, a tide.
I’m not as soft, I’m not as still,
I shut down when you speak.
I’ve run dry from giving all day—
There’s nothing left to leak.
And though I love with all I am,
Some nights, I disappear.
Not into war zones far away,
But right beside you here.
So if I seem a world away,
Or cold when I come home—
Know it’s not you I push against,
Just the silence I’ve outgrown.
The past still lives inside my bones,
The present takes its toll.
But loving you and healing too—
It’s both my wound and goal.
And all I ask is that you see
The fight behind the face.
I’m learning how to carry less,
And come back to this place.
So hold me when the light runs low,
Remind me love is near—
That even when I give too much,
There’s still room to be here.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 1:43 PM UTC
Ole, the Goodest Boy
We brought you home in a blur of gold,
A ball of fluff with eyes so bold.
You tumbled in, all paws and grace,
And filled the quiet with your pace.
We named you Ole, soft and sweet,
With clumsy steps and dancing feet.
A leash, some treats, a training plan—
We shaped your world with gentle hands.
Together we learned sit and stay,
And how to chase the fear away.
We wiped your paws, you stole our socks,
And greeted dawn with barks and walks.
The kids would cheer, you’d wag so proud,
Your ears a-flop, your bark so loud.
You weren’t just ours—you quickly knew,
You had a bigger job to do.
Through months of work, we watched you grow,
With vests and tests and healing slow.
You learned to listen, calm, and wait,
To walk through every heavy gate.
And when you passed that final test,
We cried and laughed—we knew the rest:
You’d be a light for those in pain,
A soft reminder through the rain.
Now Ole walks with heart so wide,
A gentle soul right by our side.
A doodle dog with purpose clear,
Bringing hope and wiping tears.
So proud are we, this family three,
To see what love and work can be.
A golden heart, a friend so true—
Dear Ole, we believe in you.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 10:15 AM UTC
Autumn Blaze
We dug the hole one quiet fall,
The leaves around us red and small.
A sapling slight, with roots still bare,
We gave it space, we gave it care.
Autumn Blaze, its name be true,
A fire that someday might break through.
We watched it lean, then helped its stand,
As winds moved strongly across our land.
Now look—it towers, bold and wide,
Its branches stretching toward the sky.
While others stall or wither in place,
Ours climbed with calm and patient grace.
It wasn’t just the sun and rain,
But hands that worked through joy and strain.
Like marriage, like a love once bright,
It rose because we did it right.
But love’s not just what’s built and grown—
It’s what you keep, and nurture, and own.
And somewhere in the in-between,
We lost the roots once so serene.
The tree still thrives, tall as a prayer,
While silence lingers in the air.
And I can’t help but see the cost—
Of something strong that still was lost.
We could have trimmed, we could have healed,
We could’ve fought, we could’ve kneeled.
Like tending bark or guarding flame,
Love asks for more than just a name.
So now that tree, it holds my gaze—
A monument to better days.
To what can grow and still be gone—
A blaze that burned, and then moved on.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 8:18 PM UTC
In the Eyes of God
She brought me here with love so wide,
To stand with her, to be my guide.
But first—these pews, this sacred place,
Where I must reckon, seek some grace.
RCIA on Thursday nights,
Learning saints and candle lights.
I followed faith I didn’t know,
Just to be hers, to let love grow.
One evening, quiet in his room,
I met the priest—no fire, no gloom.
Father Lybarger, calm and still,
He asked me gently, “What you will?”
I said, “There’s something I still bear—
A weight too deep for just a prayer.
I wore the flag, I did my part…
But I’ve killed a man. And it scars my heart.”
His silence wasn’t cold or long,
But measured, like a sacred song.
“You served,” he said. “You carried flame.
But war, my son, is not your shame.”
“It was duty,” I said. “Orders, battle—
But still I see his face, and more.
Can I stand before the Lord,
And vow a love I once ignored?”
He breathed, then nodded, soft and grave,
“God knows the burdens soldiers brave.
He sees the soul beneath the fight,
And walks with you through every night.
You didn’t choose to k ill in hate—
You served the world, you bore its weight.
Confess not guilt, but give your pain,
Let mercy wash you clean again.”
I left with tears that didn’t fall,
But sat behind my every wall.
And when she looked at me that night,
She saw me whole, and not the fight.
She asked me why I stayed behind,
What I had needed there to find.
I gave a smile, I made it small—
Said, “Just a talk, that’s all, that’s all.”
She searched my face, but didn’t press,
Just held my silence, nothing less.
She knew that something lived inside,
But let it wait—she let me hide.
For love like hers and grace like this,
Are forged through pain, not only bliss.
And when I say “I do” that day,
I’ll know what sacrifice can weigh.
I gave a life I can’t reclaim,
But God still whispers through my shame:
“You are not broken—just made new,
And worthy of the love in view.”
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 1:46 PM UTC
From Afar, But Never Away
I can’t sit beside you in the dark,
Can’t pass a flask or light the spark.
But I hear the tremble in your voice—
The silence thick beneath your choice.
Miles stretch like old campaign roads,
But I carry part of all your loads.
You text at two—I always read,
A lifeline born of shared old need.
You don’t have to say what haunts your nights,
I’ve seen the same uneven fights.
The kind that follow you home in dreams,
Where nothing’s ever what it seems.
From a distance, I steady your hand,
No medals, just a promise that I’ll stand.
Across the states, through static lines,
I send my words like warning signs.
“You’re not alone,” isn’t just a phrase,
It’s something we prove through foggy days.
Through calls, through chats, through every cry,
We fight the urge to say goodbye.
Because you matter—still, today.
Even if the war won’t go away.
And if I can’t be in your space,
Know this: I’m with you, just in place.
So if your weight gets too much to bear,
Text me. Call me. I’ll be there.
From afar, but never gone—
Brother, sister, we march on.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 10:21 AM UTC
Fire Through the Screen
Miles of sand, a war-torn sky,
And still, it’s you who floods my mind.
Your face lit soft in pixel light,
A ghost of touch in desert night.
You whisper low, your voice like fire,
Each breath a spark, each word desire.
My hands can’t reach, but still they ache,
For every curve I cannot take.
Your beauty glows through static haze,
A sun that burns in far-off days.
I watch you move, a sacred spell,
A private world where bodies dwell.
You tease the straps from sun-kissed skin,
And I forget the world I’m in.
No bombs, no guns, just you and me,
Two souls undressed by memory.
I talk you through with hungry eyes,
You answer back in breathless sighs.
The screen between us can’t divide
The fever rising deep inside.
This isn’t just some fleeting thrill—
It’s need, it’s love, it’s wanting still.
To claim you whole, to taste your name,
To feel you burn and do the same.
And though you’re half a world away,
We keep the dark and cold at bay.
Through cords and keys and whispered pleas,
We love in digital release.
Come home to me—my heart, my flame.
Until you do, I’ll speak your name
Into the night, into the fire,
With every pixel, every desire.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 11:39 AM UTC
The Foundation We Build
Beneath new beams and fresh-cut pine,
In the hush of evening’s slowing time,
We shape a space with care-worn hands—
A daughter’s dream, a life’s new plan.
My son-in-law, with steady grace,
Beside me in that shadowed place.
We lift and frame, we brace and bend,
Not just a room—but means to end.
My father’s voice, still calm, still wise,
Echoes through sawdust-scented skies.
Three generations, hearts as one,
Driving nails until it’s done.
There’s laughter echoing off the studs,
And plans sketched out in drywall dust.
Each hammer’s swing, each nail we drive,
Another way we keep love alive.
And yet, amid the joy and sweat,
There lies a quiet, soft regret.
A space beside me not yet filled,
A longing that won’t quite be stilled.
I wish my son could see this too,
And feel the pride in what we do.
To pass this torch, to share this bond,
To build a life he’s proud beyond.
And someone else—I feel the lack,
A presence missed, a voice held back.
To share the dusk, the ride, the road,
To lighten up this blessed load.
For family’s more than blood or name,
It’s showing up through joy and strain.
It’s knowing love in tired hands,
And finding peace in shared demands.
And when the stars begin to show,
And quiet calls me home to go,
The country roads stretch soft and wide,
With sunset bleeding on each side.
My body aches, my spirit soars—
For in these nights and through these chores,
I’ve come to see what matters most:
Not walls, not tools, but who we host.
A future built with sweat and care,
With love poured out in each repair.
And in that basement, warm and bright,
Lives not just shelter—but their light.
To give, to build, to stand beside,
To share the load, to swell with pride—
I know now what family means:
It’s not the house, but all the scenes
Of working late and driving slow,
Of quiet peace when day lets go.
Of building futures, hand in hand—
On sacred, sawdust-covered land.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 10:11 AM UTC
This isnt a poem but it is a REALIZATION. A realization that most of everybody, every human being has their oen imagination. And each of us human beings use our imaginations almost everyday of our lives, now most human beings like me who have been bullied 24/7 almost everyday of the week.... Tend to use our imagination more than the average human being. You see I use my imagination everyday, in everything that i do. I use my imagionation as an escape. An escape from life. An esape from the bullies. And every other thing that ever happened to me. But after getting bullied so badly, now it seems like no matter how far or how deep I go into my imagination I go, the bullies are always there and now its to the point where i've turned to other things like drugs, I know thats a bad thing but its not bad to the point where im addicted its just that I use them to numb the everyday pain of life away. But as I continue to use the drugs the numbness from the drugs is starting to numb away and now im starting to feel all the pain from life again and now im realizing that I need help before its to late because I keep thinking these crazy thoughts. And they truly scare me. If your reading this please. Help me. Before its to late.
BY: BLURRYFACE
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
The Space Between Sand and Skin
You kissed me in camo beneath morning light,
Orders in hand, boots laced up tight—
New ring still warm on your finger’s grace,
Gone too soon, with fire on your face.
You left for a land of endless dust,
While I stayed back with memory’s rust.
The house is haunted not by ghosts,
But echoes of what I feared the most.
Your scent on sheets, your laugh in rooms,
Wake the war drums, old perfume—
I tried to bury all that hell,
But love like yours became the shell.
Nights drag slow through sleepless fights,
Flashbacks lit by bathroom lights.
I count each breath, I grip the floor,
Then whisper your name like a whispered war.
But God—when you’re back for those fleeting weeks,
No words, just skin, no need to speak.
You crash into me like the ocean’s roar,
I drown in you, beg, and ask for more.
Your body—battle-hardened, bold—
Takes me places I used to hold.
In that heat, we shed the weight,
Of every bomb, every twist of fate.
Then gone again—you disappear—
And I’m left clutching what feels like fear.
But this time love is my parade,
And in its arms, I’m less afraid.
Come back to me, my fire, my flame—
Each day I wait, I whisper your name.
You wear the uniform, I wear the scars,
But we still meet beneath the stars.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 10:01 AM UTC
Summer Cut
The sun hangs low, a golden sigh,
As dusk rolls in across the sky.
We’re side by side in evening’s hum,
The mower growls, the constant drum.
You push the line with steady grace,
Sweat like diamonds on your face.
That tank top clings in all the right ways—
I pause my task, caught in a daze.
Your hips, the sway, the strength, the fire—
Even in work, you spark desire.
Each pass you make, each blade you bend,
Turns labor into sweet pretend.
I watch from far, heart in a race,
Wanting more than just this space.
Your body glows in fading light—
You, the heat, this perfect night.
We finish slow, the yard laid bare,
Your fingers pulling loose your hair.
You glance at me with that old spark—
And just like that, I lose the dark.
The hose runs cold, but the shower waits—
Steam will rise, as passion wakes.
Hands will find familiar skin,
And what we start out here, begins within.
The grass is done, the stars climb high—
But darling, it’s your moan, not the sky,
That I’ll replay when day is through—
You, the night, and all we do.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 11:13 AM UTC
The Hug That Never Happened
They sat in silence, inches apart,
Two aching chests, one broken heart.
A single word could bridge the gap,
But pride stood tall, a cruel mishap.
The morning light through curtains poured,
Like grace that neither one implored.
A touch, a glance, a soft “I’m sorry”—
Could’ve rewritten all the story.
She brushed her teeth, stared at the stream,
He watched the wall, lost in a dream.
Each waiting for the other’s cue,
To do what both just meant to do.
A hug—just that. No grand parade.
No speeches long, no debts repaid.
Just arms around and tempers softened,
The kind of peace they’d both forgotten.
But silence grew where love had been,
A slow erosion, paper-thin.
And lawyers came with suits and sighs,
To drain their banks and split the ties.
No scandal flared, no great affair,
Just missed connections, vacant stares.
The final line, a quiet shrug—
All for the lack of just one hug.
Now a year has passed, and so has he—
The boy who once sat on their knee.
He builds his walls with heavy care,
Afraid of love that won’t be there.
He flinches when voices start to rise,
He searches truth behind goodbyes.
He wonders why the warmest homes
Can turn to halls where no one roams.
His laughter, once so quick to bloom,
Now echoes softer in his room.
He says he’s fine, but in his eyes—
You see the cost of grown-up lies.
And they—the two who chose to part,
Now carry shards inside their heart.
Two separate lives that once were whole,
Now ghosted by a half-lived soul.
They fake their smiles, they learn to cope,
They grip at joy, they reach for hope.
But every quiet night reveals
A wound that time just never heals.
They’ll build new paths, they’ll find their way,
But something pure got lost that day.
For all the things they rose above—
They’ll never quite outrun that love.
Two people who will always ache,
For what they lost, and didn’t take.
And all because, when push had come,
They chose the cold and not the hug.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 9:47 AM UTC
Still, With You (The Family We Grew)
We are not mirrors, you and I—
I chase the stars, you watch the sky.
I dream out loud, you hold things tight,
And still we make it through the night.
Your laughter fills a crowded room,
I find my peace beneath the moon.
You need the noise, I crave the still—
And yet, we walk this road with will.
We’ve shouted, cried, then softly swayed,
But never once let love decay.
Our corners sharp, our angles new—
And still, I’ve always chosen you.
Through seasons passing, fast and slow,
We built a world where roots could grow.
With tired hands and hopeful eyes,
We raised our hearts into the skies.
The sleepless nights, the sticky floors,
The little shoes behind the doors.
The scraped-up knees, the birthday cheers,
The quiet talks across the years.
I taught him fire, you taught him rest—
Between us, he became their best.
He learned that love’s not always smooth,
But in the cracks, it finds its truth.
Now silver lines your softer face,
And still you move with stubborn grace.
We may not see the world the same,
But side by side, we played this game.
And when they ask us how we knew
To hold on tight and make it through,
We’ll say, “We grew, and bent, and stayed—
And loved through all the mess we made.”
So bring your storm, I’ll bring my ground,
In every clash, we still are found.
For all we’ve built, and all we do—
I’d grow old, again, with only you.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 1:39 PM UTC
More Alike Than We Knew
We once burned like wildfire caught,
No hesitation, second thought.
We built a world in gasps and skin,
A sacred place we both fit in.
Before the war, before the grief,
Before the silence stole belief—
We lived like nothing could divide
The way your soul once moved with mine.
But then the war pulled you away,
And I stood still while skies turned gray.
When you came back, you weren’t the same—
And neither was I, if I’m being plain.
I wore a uniform too long,
And braved the frontlines, stayed strong.
But still, the dust stayed in my chest,
Long after I was told to rest.
Then came the bridge, the twisted steel,
The weight of death I couldn’t heal.
The sirens, smoke, the eerie screams—
They still show up inside my dreams.
And COVID took the last of me—
The halls of death, the constant plea.
Masked and moving, heart on fire,
Another loss, another pyre.
You had your ghosts—I had mine too,
But we both thought we had no clue.
We passed like strangers in one space,
Each hiding panic in our face.
I thought you’d shut the door on me.
You thought I needed to be free.
But truth is, love—we both withdrew,
And we were more alike than we ever knew.
I swallowed pain, you turned away.
Both thinking, “They don’t want to stay.”
But every time we didn’t speak,
We built the wall another week.
We made love soft, then not at all.
You blamed the world. I blamed the wall.
But deep beneath the days we lost,
We never stopped. We just paid the cost.
We could have fixed it, if we dared—
To say we broke, to say we cared.
To hold each other past the pride,
And cry for what we kept inside.
But trauma doesn’t knock or ask,
It buries truth behind a mask.
And though we both were bleeding through,
We never said, “I see you too.”
Still, I remember how you burned,
And how my hands to you returned.
And somewhere deep, I know it’s true:
I was more like you…
And you were more like me too.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 1:47 PM UTC
She Showed Me How
She came into this world so fast,
A moment stamped into my past.
I was young—too young to know
How deep a father’s roots must grow.
I loved her, yes, but love alone
Can’t raise a child or build a home.
I stumbled, scared, without a plan,
Half-boy, half-heart, not yet a man.
The years moved on, we grew apart,
And guilt pressed heavy on my heart.
A bond undone, a missed first day,
A thousand things I didn’t say.
Then came her—my brand new wife,
A steady soul who lit my life.
She saw the cracks I tried to hide,
And stood not back, but by my side.
She didn’t scold the boy I’d been,
She met the man I am within.
With kindness, patience, grace so wide,
She drew my daughter to our side.
She opened doors I’d left closed tight,
Spoke softer truths, turned wrongs to right.
Invited joy where silence grew,
And helped me learn what dads must do.
Now laughter rings where doubt once lay,
My daughter knows I’m here to stay.
And every smile we share right now
Begins with her—she showed me how.
For all I missed, for where I fell,
She loved me through and loved me well.
And in her hands, I found my way—
A father formed, a debt I’ll pay.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 2:02 PM UTC
Hands That Wait
You carry weight with silent pride,
A storm you never let outside.
I see it press against your spine,
But every offer, you decline.
“I’m fine,” you say, with furrowed brow,
As if that’s all you will allow.
You wear the world like armor tight,
Then wonder why you lose the fight.
I reach for you with open hands,
But you’ve built walls from shifting sands.
I see you drown and will not swim,
Afraid that help admits you’re dim.
But strength is not a solo act,
It’s in the pause, the soft impact
Of letting someone in the dark
Hold even just the smallest part.
You mow the grass, the dog, the day—
But not the cracks that won’t obey.
And I can’t fix what you won’t share,
Can’t love the weight if you’re not there.
I’m here, still here, with hands outstretched,
My care not soft, not vague, not fetched.
But love can’t break through what you cage—
And silence slowly turns to rage.
So tell me where the hurt begins.
Let me help you hold the pins.
We lose the fight when we don’t see—
That even strong hearts bend to breathe.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 1:29 PM UTC
Locked Rooms
You lie beside me every night,
But dream alone, beyond my sight.
Your eyes drift off to places deep,
While I stay waking in the sleep.
You speak of work, of plans, the day,
But never what you’ve throw away.
Not what you long for, fear, or miss—
Just surface talk, no hidden wish.
I ask, you nod, then change the thread,
As if your dreams were something dead.
A vault you never want to share,
A soul too tangled to lay bare.
I don’t need answers tied in bows,
Or every thought you’ve ever known.
I just want in—just one small key—
To feel your fire burning free.
But walls are what you offer back,
And silence fills the growing crack.
How strange to love, and still not know
The places that your heart won’t go.
I can’t hold dreams you never speak,
Or heal the parts you will not seek.
I’m not a ghost, I’m not a guess—
I’m here, but aching nonetheless.
So tell me where your stars are set,
What haunts your nights with quiet debt.
I want to love you, fully true—
But I can’t reach the locked-up you.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 1:31 PM UTC