Let’s not sleep—
let’s overthink!
Let’s rethink
every awkward blink.

Let’s write a novel
in our head,
then cry about
what we should’ve said.

Sleep is boring.
Peace is fake.
Let’s spiral till
the morning breaks.

Blank Space

A cloud without its sky.
A bridge with no support.
Words that can’t be filled in—
Often left with blank spaces.

Stars that have lost their twilight glow...
The flash that once helped me plunge forward.

Going on hiatus.
Slumber—
That never seems adequate.

Ink that blends into the page, doesnt bend
Like I’ve got in touch with nothing.

What is a writer without their hard-hitting words?
What is a pen without the dye to write,
Or a page without its clear, straight lines?

Let’s mould the perfect picture—
make the pieces fit.

SNAP—
it clicks in place.
Hand in hand,
these pieces don’t budge.

We find new wedges,
fresh segments,
attach new memories.
Keep building—

until the juice
isn’t worth the squeeze.

You and I—
dead, forgotten,
living only
in the memory
of what we built—

the perfect life.

A mother’s hands —
Hands that care,
That reach even the deepest
Cells in the body
With a tender touch.

Love —
It can crack and splinter,
But never disappear.

Even on a cold, rainy night,
When you try to hold yourself,
You never forget
A mother’s touch —
Like cherry blossoms
Blooming every spring.

But what happens
When that love
Pulls apart,
Finger by finger,
Bone by bone,
Until it’s all gone?

Who’s going to hold you then?

When a mother’s hands heal no longer,
And all you can do
Is remember how you used to be held —
The notes of her quiet humming
Now seem off-pitch.