Poetry

Language is often our first act of resistance. It matters how we talk about the work we do; the words we use and the ideas we create matter to describe the world we live in, and the freedom and justice we deserve. Along with music, poetry—and they went together for most of the history of language—forms the fundamental basis of culture and society, a way to transmit wisdom and experience.

“Poetry is so important because it helps us understand and appreciate the world around us. Poetry’s strength lies in its ability to shed a “sideways” light on the world, so the truth sneaks up on you. No question about it. Poetry teaches us how to live. Poetry is like the Windex on a grubby car window—it bares open the vulnerabilities of human beings so we can all relate to each other a little better.”
— Alice Osborn


Men have written poetry about anything and everything for thousands of years, so shall we.
Don’t let words scare you!

On Experience

**Trigger warning: some poems include experiences with anxiety, depression, and ocd

  • Fresh grief, like fresh love,
    has a way of sharpening our vision,
    a crystalline lens that cuts
    through the fog of the everyday,
    bringing on those painful clarifications,
    each revelation a dagger,
    each insight a wound that bleeds.
    No matter how temporary these states may be,
    the vulnerability they demand
    can overpower the strongest among us,
    rendering us raw, exposed,
    splayed open like a book
    whose pages are torn and frayed.  

    In the wake of loss,
    the heart beats with a fierce rhythm,
    a metronome ticking in the silence,
    reminding us of what was,
    what could have been and now is not,
    while love—so tender and fickle—
    flares like a spark in the dark,
    its warmth a fleeting apparition
    that dances just out of reach.  

    Then there are those rare, fertile moments,
    when both grief and limerence intertwine,
    a delicate tapestry woven from the threads
    of sorrow and desire,
    heightening, complicating,
    explaining each other in a language
    only the heart can decipher,
    where mourning becomes an echo of longing,
    and love, a bittersweet ache.  

    In this alchemy of emotion,
    we find ourselves transformed,
    the pain and passion colliding,
    a storm that rages within,
    and in that chaos, we discover
    the beauty of being alive,
    the rawness of being human,
    where grief sharpens our edges
    and love softens our blows,
    each moment a witness to the struggle,
    each breath a reminder
    that we are here,
    vulnerable yet fierce,
    caught in the dance of light and shadow,
    where every heartbeat is a promise
    to feel it all,
    to embrace the complexity of our existence,
    for in this intertwining,
    we find our truest selves.  

  • Intrusive thoughts, like shadows,
    slip through the cracks of my mind,
    each one a thief in the night,
    stealing the quiet,
    the solace of sleep.
    Obsessive thoughts coil
    around my brain like ivy,
    tendrils creeping,
    tightening their grip,
    suffocating the peace
    I so desperately crave.  

    Not sleeping through the night,
    my heart a metronome of dread,
    counting the seconds,
    the minutes that stretch
    like a rubber band pulled
    to the brink of snapping.
    Waking up in the dark,
    the world a silent witness
    to my turmoil,
    hours unfurling like a scroll
    of anxious whispers,
    each one a reminder of my fragility.  

    I feel the overwhelming tide rising,
    an ocean of anxiety crashing,
    pulling me under with its force,
    and I can’t concentrate,
    can’t gather the scattered pieces
    of my thoughts,
    each task a mountain
    I’m too weary to climb.
    The frustration mounts,
    a storm brewing inside,
    and I feel the shadows
    of depression creeping closer,
    an unwelcome guest
    taking root in my day-to-day,
    uprooting the mundane,
    the familiar,
    twisting it into something
    unrecognizable,
    something heavy that drags
    on my spirit.  

    My mind is a battleground,
    where chaos reigns supreme,
    and in this war against myself,
    I seek refuge,
    a moment of clarity
    amidst the clamor,
    but all I find are echoes
    of what once was,
    a fading light
    lost in the fog of despair.

    Yet still, I breathe,
    a frail pulse against the dark,
    holding on to the slivers of hope
    that flicker like distant stars,
    reminding me that even in this chaos,
    there lies a flicker of resilience,
    a whisper that tells me
    I am not alone,
    that even the most tangled thoughts
    can find a way to unravel,
    and perhaps, one day,
    I will emerge from this night,
    reborn, to reclaim the dawn.  

  • I’m really going through it again,
    caught in a web of contradictions,
    a place where chaos intertwines
    with a newfound sense of self,
    where I teeter on the brink
    of an emotional breakdown,
    yet rise—
    undeniably,
    into the light,
    a phoenix forged in the fire
    of my struggles.

    No longer afraid to unveil
    the raw, unvarnished truth,
    this is what it looks like
    when it’s bad—
    scattered pieces of me
    like confetti flung
    from a party no one wanted
    to attend.
    My emotions spiral,
    a fucking roller coaster,
    each rise a fleeting hope,
    each plunge a gut-wrenching despair,
    chronic pain clings to my bones,
    uncontrollable tears spill forth
    like rain from a storm-worn sky,
    rage an outcry
    I cannot harness.

    Anxiety grips me tight,
    a vice that twists and pulls,
    leaving me feeling
    like a marionette cut loose,
    dancing on the edge of destruction,
    bingeing, purging,
    starvation’s cruel embrace,
    over-exercising, isolating—
    a desperate attempt to reclaim control
    in a world that feels
    like slipping sand.  

    OCD, my relentless companion,
    whispers intrusive thoughts,
    a perfect storm of perfectionism,
    insidious and maddening,
    telling me I am nothing—
    worthless, a burden,
    the spirals drag me down,
    truth twisted into a noose,
    yet I know it will pass,
    like storm clouds that scatter
    into the embrace of dawn.
    But oh, the hamster wheel spins,
    a relentless cycle of mental and physical decay,
    and I am weary.  

    I’ve decided to explore medication again,
    not a failure, but a lifeline,
    for I can no longer dance
    this yo-yo of emotions,
    this self-destruction masquerading
    as art. I thought I was getting better,
    but the weight of it presses down—
    I can’t bear the thought
    of living unmedicated,
    a choice that feels
    irresponsible now,
    as if I let the waves
    crash over me
    without a fight.

    I know medication will color my art,
    the brushstrokes may shift,
    the words may falter,
    but I cling to the hope
    that the palette can still sing,
    that I won’t lose the fire
    that burns within.
    Art has healed me time and again,
    a haven crafted from chaos,
    and yet I tremble
    at the thought of losing
    my inspiration,
    my lifeblood,
    more afraid of losing myself
    in the process.

    I know I am not alone—
    so many struggle with this burden,
    but the shame clings like a shadow,
    fearing that others will only see
    the crazy, the lost cause,
    a specter haunting the edges
    of relationships,
    that my struggles are too much,
    too heavy for tender hearts to bear.
    Social media, a mirror reflecting
    my anxieties,
    a trigger that pulls like a taut string,
    so I retreat,
    limiting its grasp
    on my fragile psyche.  

    In this tumult of existence,
    I seek to find my footing,
    to embrace the messy beauty
    of my humanity,
    to rise yet again,
    to create despite the chaos,
    and hold tight to the essence
    of who I am—
    a flawed artist,
    a heart laid bare,
    still breathing,
    still creating,
    still alive.  

  • If you want evidence the world is a terrible place,  
    look no further than the flickering screen,  
    the television's glow,  
    a cold, blue eye  
    that stares back with a hunger  
    for the grotesque,  
    a parade of horrors  
    unfolding like petals of decay.  
    Surf the web,  
    a digital sea of discontent,  
    where the currents pull  
    at the heartstrings,  
    each scroll a reminder  
    of the chaos that lurks,  
    the shadows of humanity  
    dancing like wraiths  
    in the alleyways of despair.  

    Nature, that ancient architect,  
    has no incentive  
    to keep us agitated,  
    to stoke the fires of anger and anxiety.
    She breathes in quietude,  
    a balm against the noise,  
    her whispers woven  
    into the fabric of the wind,  
    the rustle of leaves,  
    the gentle pulse of the earth  
    beneath our feet.  
    Yet we, the restless children,  
    run headlong into the storm,  
    seeking solace in the clamor,  
    in the cacophony of discord  
    that echoes through our homes,  
    our hearts.  

    What is it to be human,  
    if not to bear witness  
    to the world’s unraveling?  
    We are moths drawn to flames,  
    our wings singed by the heat,  
    and still we hover,  
    captivated by the spectacle,  
    the tragedy playing out  
    in pixels and soundbites,  
    the news a relentless tide  
    that washes over us,  
    drowning the calm  
    that nature offers.  

    In her arms,  
    there are no headlines,  
    no breaking news alerts,  
    just the slow, steady rhythm  
    of life unfurling,  
    the quiet strength of mountains,  
    the patient wisdom of the sea.  
    But we turn away,  
    seeking the chaos,  
    the drama of existence,  
    as if the truth of our hearts  
    lies in the discord.  

    Yet in the stillness,  
    there is a truth that speaks,  
    a gentle reminder  
    that we can step back  
    from the edge of the screen,  
    that we can breathe  
    with the trees,  
    find solace in the rain,  
    and let the world’s terrible truths  
    drift away like autumn leaves,  
    settling softly  
    on the earth,  
    as we learn to listen  
    to the quiet song  
    of what it means to simply be.  

  • Perfect is the enemy of progress,
    a specter lurking in the shadows,
    whispering sweet lies of symmetry,
    of polished edges and flawless lines,
    demanding a stillness,
    a stasis that suffocates the heart,
    a prison built on the altar
    of unattainable ideals.

    But progress—
    ah, progress is a wild thing,
    a cyclone that roars through the soul,
    non-linear, jagged,
    like a path worn by a thousand feet
    on a landscape of contradictions.
    It feels uncomfortable,
    an itch beneath the skin,
    a growing pain that stretches
    the sinews of who we thought we were,
    and in its wake,
    it leaves a trail of chaos,
    messy and unorganized,
    like the detritus of the storm.

    There is no tidy box for progress,
    no neatly folded timeline
    that charts its course—
    it lurches and stumbles,
    a child learning to walk,
    and oh, how it falls!
    But from each tumble,
    it rises anew,
    and the choice to show up
    for oneself
    is the quiet act of rebellion,
    the soft defiance against the pull
    of perfection’s grasp.

    To show up—
    to stand in the mirror’s glare,
    to face the disarray,
    the clutter of thoughts and dreams,
    is to embrace the beautiful struggle,
    to acknowledge that progress
    is not a straight line
    but a dance of spirals,
    a winding road that curls
    through valleys of doubt
    and peaks of fleeting clarity.

    Each step forward may feel heavy,
    each breath a labor,
    but within the discomfort lies growth,
    the seeds of change buried deep,
    waiting for the warmth of intention
    to coax them into bloom.
    Progress is the beating heart,
    the pulse of life that thrums
    beneath the surface,
    the rhythm of consistency
    that carries us forward,
    even when the way is obscured
    by the fog of our fears.

    So let us cast aside the chains
    of perfect,
    and embrace the glorious mess
    of becoming—
    for progress is the art
    of showing up,
    the courage to sit
    with the uncomfortable chaos,
    and in that sacred space,
    we find the truth:
    that to be imperfect is to be alive,
    to be on the journey,
    and to paint our own masterpiece
    in strokes both bold and trembling.

  • Shame is like an ice cream sundae she said,
    Layered and sweet, yet bitter at the core,
    A glossy crown of cherry, bright and bold,
    Hiding the dark, the unmentionable,
    The melted truths that swirl beneath.

    It sits heavy in a glass bowl,
    Glistening, a false promise of delight,
    Each scoop a memory, each drizzle a wound,
    Chocolate syrup thick as silence,
    Whipped cream clouds the sharp edges,
    Concealing the jagged shards of self.

    We gather around the table,
    With spoons poised like weapons,
    Ready to devour the façade,
    But with each bite, the chill creeps in,
    Fingers numbed by the coldness of exposure,
    A shiver that travels down the spine.

    The shame drips slowly,
    Like melting ice on a summer’s day,
    Pooling at the bottom,
    An unsightly mess, a stain,
    A reminder that sweetness masks the ache.

    And yet we crave it,
    To binge the sundae of regret,
    This confection of concealment,
    An indulgence we cannot resist,
    For in its depths, we find ourselves,
    Our laughter mingled with the tears,
    The weight of our secrets,
    The heaviness of our hearts.

    So we spoon it up,
    Each bite a confession,
    Each layer a story,
    Revealing, concealing,
    A delicious paradox,
    The shame we wear like a cloak,
    The sweetness that coats the bitterness,
    A dance of contradictions,
    In the silent echoes of the mind.

    But when the bowl is empty,
    And the last spoonful is gone,
    What remains is the hollow,
    The coldness that lingers on the tongue,
    A haunting reminder that beneath the surface,
    Shame is not just a sundae,
    But the ghost of what we hide,
    A bittersweet truth that clings,
    Long after the flavors fade away.

  • This is your life—step into it,  
    with all the fervor of a child  
    dancing on the edge of a summer’s day,
    where the sun spills golden light
    over the worn paths of your heart.
    You get to love, to appreciate,
    to savor every moment,
    and if anyone dares to judge,
    let them go ahead and fuck right off,
    for their voices are but whispers
    in the eye of your truth.  

    To save your own life,
    you must become embodied,
    wrap your arms around your experiences
    like a mother cradling her child,
    more concerned with the pulse of your own heart
    than the echo of others’ interpretations.
    What is a big life, after all?
    Is it merely buying into the trajectory
    of the American Dream,
    that shiny veneer of success
    that promises fulfillment
    but often leaves you hollow?  

    Or is a big life found in the complexities
    of relationships, where love intertwines
    with the mundane,
    where moments of relaxation
    bloom into laughter,
    and production gives way to presence?
    Is a big life only the mountain-top moments,
    the grand achievements that glitter like stars?
    Or is it found in the simple walks,
    hand in hand with family,
    the quiet ritual of making coffee for your love,
    the laughter that erupts so fiercely
    you can’t help but pee your pants?  

    Does a big life mean you claw at the marrow
    from every crevice, every nook,
    savoring the richness of existence?
    Yes, it does.
    But the trick lies in knowing
    what marrow means to you,
    in understanding the essence
    that nourishes your spirit,
    the sweet nectar that fills your cup to overflowing.  

    Then, my dear, your life will be immeasurable,
    a life woven with the threads of your truth,
    each moment a stitch in the fabric of your being,
    each heartbeat a reminder
    that the grandest life is not defined
    by the world’s standards,
    but by the depth of your own experience,
    the love you cultivate,
    and the joy you dare to embrace.
    So step boldly into your life,  
    for it is yours to shape,
    to love, to live,
    and to make beautifully,
    resoundingly,
    yours.  

  • I learned to ride the waves of hurt,
    to understand that healing is not a straight line,
    but a winding path,
    where pain can bloom again
    from the smallest of triggers.
    If self-loathing brought success,
    I would already be
    the shiniest star I could be,
    but art has taught me hope,
    the kind that trembles
    at the edges of belief,
    the confidence to navigate
    the messy terrain of my mind.  

    Each expression of fear,
    each whisper of longing,
    does not make me too much—
    it makes me strong,
    for growth does not dwell
    in answers,
    but in the acceptance
    of uncertainty,
    and I am learning,
    in the depths of my insecurities,
    that I am remarkable,
    even when knee-deep
    in false narratives.  

    I show up,
    I try,
    I fight for myself
    each day,
    making mistakes,
    creating a beautiful mess,
    choosing to repair the fraying threads
    of my relationship with self,
    to build rather than destroy.
    As women, we are gifted
    in the art of annihilation,
    slashing at our worth
    with jagged knives of doubt,
    but at some point,
    one must choose—
    life is worth more
    than the boundaries
    we erect for safety,
    for safety is a cage,
    and living requires bravery,
    the bravest act being
    to lean into insecurities
    and transform them into strength.  

    Forgiveness becomes a balm,
    a soothing touch
    for the wounds of yesterday,
    as I learn to sit
    with the discomfort,
    to embrace the happiness,
    the sadness,
    the frustration—
    to dwell in the full spectrum
    of my emotions,
    to be alive in the beautiful mess
    of it all.  

  • Your new life will cost you your old one,
    the soft cocoon of comfort,
    the warm embrace of familiarity,
    slipping through your fingers
    like sand, relentless and shifting.
    It will cost you those worn paths,
    the sense of direction that felt
    like a compass in your chest,
    the friendships that once anchored you,
    now drifting like leaves in a storm.

    You will pay with the currency of loss,
    the price tag hanging heavy
    around your neck,
    and yes, it will sting—
    the ache of being unliked,
    misunderstood, a phantom
    in the eyes of those who knew you before.
    But it doesn’t matter,
    because the alchemy of transformation
    will forge new bonds in the turmoil of change.

    The people meant for you
    will meet you on the other side,
    shining like satellites
    in a newly charted sky,
    each one a beacon,
    each one a reminder
    of the beauty that shines
    in the wake of letting go.
    You will build a new comfort zone,
    a crafted shelter
    from the things that stir your soul,
    the passions that ignite
    the very marrow of your bones,
    and in that sacred space,
    you will learn the difference
    between being liked
    and being loved.

    You will shed the skin of the past
    the serpent that sheds what no longer fits
    and instead of being understood
    you will be seen—
    truly seen,
    the raw and radiant essence of you,
    unveiled beneath the layers
    of who you thought you had to be.

    All you will lose
    is what was built for a person
    you no longer are,
    a structure crumbling under the weight
    of your growth,
    and in the rubble,
    you will find the seeds of new beginnings,
    the promise of a life
    that is not just lived,
    but felt,
    with every pulse,
    every heartbeat,
    that whispers to you—
    “Step forward,
    and let the light
    of your new life
    show you the way.”

  • I love myself doesn’t have to mean
    I don’t love you,  
    as if my heart must choose  
    between the two,  
    a cruel, false dichotomy  
    where affection becomes a weapon.  
    I love myself should be good news for you,  
    a celebration, a soft anthem  
    echoing through the chambers of our existence,  
    a declaration that rings  
    like a bell in the quiet of uncertainty.  

    To love myself is an act of honoring,  
    a recognition that I value imperfection
    and the vast, open truth of my being,
    a mosaic of flaws and glories,
    I love myself should be a sign
    that I can look past the shadows,  
    the anger, the resentment,  
    the assumptions that cling like cobwebs,  
    and if I can do that for myself,  
    then loving you is a piece of cake—  
    sweet, layered, adorned with heart.  

    People always say you must love yourself first,  
    but that’s a half-truth, a tidy little mantra,  
    for the truth is far more complex,  
    woven into the fabric of our connections.  
    Loving and trusting someone else  
    so deeply that you allow them  
    to see your most unattractive parts,  
    the bruises and scars you’ve hidden away,  
    that’s the key that unlocks the door  
    to loving yourself,  
    to embracing the entirety of who you are.  

    It is the love of someone who truly sees you,  
    who gazes into the depths of your being
    and says, “Yes, I see it all,  
    the shadows and the light,  
    and I love it all because it’s all you.”  
    That profound acceptance,  
    like sunlight breaking through the clouds,  
    makes you feel worthy of your own love,  
    a gift you can finally unwrap,  
    holding it close,  
    cradling it against your heart.  

    So, loving yourself isn’t selfish,  
    it’s an act of clemency,  
    a radical sharing of your essence,  
    a communion that transcends  
    the individual experience,  
    a bridge built between us.  
    Loving yourself is the gateway  
    to being truly loved in return,  
    the greatest gift we humans can give,  
    a sacred exchange that blossoms  
    from the roots of self-acceptance,  
    where love flows freely,  
    and we become not just lovers,  
    but reflections of each other’s love.  

  • The ego will always want to converse,  
    a relentless chatter in the cavern of my mind,  
    a mockingbird perched on the ledge,  
    singing back the same hollow notes,  
    as if it holds the keys to the universe,  
    a jester cloaked in the robes of wisdom,  
    prattling on to prove its worth,  
    to frame the chaos in neat little boxes,
    each word a calculated move  
    in a game of chess against the self.  

    It tugs at the threads of thought,  
    pulling tight, unraveling the fabric  
    of quiet contemplation,  
    demanding to dissect every pulse,  
    every tremor of doubt that flickers  
    in the dim light of understanding.  
    Oh, how it dances in the spotlight,
    the need to figure things out,  
    as if knowledge were a trophy  
    to be polished and displayed,  
    a glimmering prize for the minds  
    that cannot rest  
    until every question is splayed bare.  

    But beneath the surface of this chatter,  
    the frantic grasp for clarity,  
    lies a deeper truth,  
    a silence that breathes  
    in the spaces between the noise,  
    where the heart knows  
    what the ego cannot comprehend,  
    a language that transcends the clatter,  
    that whispers softly in the dark,  
    inviting me to listen,  
    to pause,  
    to embrace the mystery  
    that lies shrouded in shadows.  

    For the ego is a clever thief,  
    snatching moments of stillness  
    and wrapping them in its riddle,  
    but I seek the quiet,  
    the sacred communion  
    with the depth of my being,  
    where answers flourish and thrive,  
    untamed and vibrant,  
    unfettered by the need  
    to prove intelligence,  
    to win the debate  
    in the court of perception.  

    So let the ego chatter,  
    let it prattle on in its fervor,  
    while I sink into the weight of the world,  
    finding solace in the silence,  
    in the unspoken truths  
    that linger like smoke  
    after a fire has faded,  
    and in that stillness,  
    I will uncover the wisdom  
    that lies beyond the clamor,  
    the quiet knowing that resonates  
    in the chambers of my heart,  
    reminding me that sometimes,  
    to understand is to let go,  
    to embrace the unknown  
    with open arms,  
    and to trust the unfolding  
    of life’s intricate dance.  

  • My therapist says I’m self-aware,  
    A keen observer, dissecting air,  
    But oh, this mind—a ceaseless churn,  
    In every thought, there’s more to learn.  

    I can’t escape the watchful eye,  
    Of my own gaze that questions why,  
    Each feeling wrapped in layers tight,  
    A puzzle piece in endless night.  

    To psychoanalyze each sigh,  
    Each flicker of the soul’s reply,  
    Is to consume my very breath,  
    A slow and silent dance with death.  

    This self-awareness, sharp and bright,
    Is a relentless, gnawing blight,  
    It eats me whole, a ravenous beast,  
    No mental rest, no inner feast.  

    I long for someone to behold,  
    This tangled mess, this heart of gold,  
    To see the chaos, raw and real,  
    And recognize the wounds I feel.  

    But here I am, in shadowed thought,  
    With intellect, my battles fought,  
    Yet yearning still for gentle grace,  
    To find some solace in embrace.  

    For in this circle of the mind,  
    Where clarity is cruelly blind,  
    I seek a hand to hold me true,  
    To recognize this self, anew.  

  • I am scared I’ve embraced being an artist 
    because within me lies a chasm,  
    a wound that never closes,  
    an echo of a shattered mirror,  
    reflecting fragments of a self  
    I cannot piece together.  

    What if something in me is perpetually broken,  
    like a bird with a fractured wing,  
    flapping against the cage of my heart,
    its song a mournful whisper,  
    haunting the corners of my mind,  
    a melody of despair and longing.  

    Each brushstroke is a tremor,  
    each word a desperate gasp,  
    as I scrape the surface of existence,  
    searching for beauty in the ruins,  
    for light in the shadows that cling  
    like ivy to the bones of my spirit.  

    I wonder if the artist is born  
    from the ashes of their own destruction,  
    if the act of creation  
    is but a way to stitch the wounds,  
    to morph the pain into something  
    that can breathe and shimmer,  
    even as it weeps.  

    But what if the fear is the art?  
    What if the brokenness is the canvas,  
    the rawness, the truth,  
    a vision of the chaos within,  
    the scars that tell a story  
    of resilience and fragility,  
    woven together in a blanket of grief?  

    What if I’m an artist
    that creates to expose,  
    to lay bare the torn bits
    and invite the world to witness  
    the beauty that rises from the wreckage,  
    to find solace in the cracks,  
    and in the knowing,  
    to rise amidst the ruins.  

  • Why does away sound so good?  
    A whispering ghost in the hollow of night,  
    a siren’s call, a fleeting promise,  
    draped in the shadows of forgotten dreams.  
    It dances on the edge of breath,  
    taunting the marrow of my bones,  
    a lullaby for the restless heart,  
    a balm for the aching solitude.  

    Away—a bitter-sweet escape,  
    where the skies unfold in silken blues,
    and the raw edges of this life  
    fade into a distant haze,  
    where the weight of expectation  
    dissolves like sugar in the rain,  
    leaving only the pure essence of flight,  
    the thrill of slipping through the cracks.  

    In the stillness, I taste its longing,  
    sharp as the blade of a winter’s dawn,  
    the pulse of something more, something wild,  
    that thrums beneath the surface of routine,  
    like a caged bird, feathers ruffled with desire,  
    yearning for the open air,  
    for the ink-stained pages of the unknown,  
    where I can shed my skin,  
    unravel the tightly wound threads of self.  

    Why does away sound so good?  
    Because it carries the scent of escape,  
    the sweet decay of what was,  
    and the promise of rebirth somewhere  
    beyond the reach of the mundane.  
    It hums in my veins, a restless ache,  
    pulling me, tugging at the seams of my soul,  
    where dreams lay dormant,  
    awaiting the spark of a reckless abandon.  

    So let me wander into that abyss,  
    where the horizon blushes with the glow,  
    of a thousand untouched tomorrows,  
    and the echoes of my laughter  
    float like dandelion seeds,  
    scattering into the wind,  
    each one a wish, a thought, a hope,  
    lost yet found in the expanse of away.  

    Oh, to slip into the softness of that sound,  
    where the world unwinds its heavy cloak,  
    and I, unburdened,  
    can finally breathe,  
    can finally be,  
    the ghost in the echo,  
    the dream in the dark,  
    the away that sounds so good.

On Self

  • Yes, this woman really really fucking loves you,
    and there is no one like you,
    a singular force that shatters the clouds,
    ripping apart my gloom,
    your presence an uproar that swirls  
    through the marrow of my bones.
    You touch me and I hear violins play—
    sweet, aching melodies that rise
    like smoke from the ashes of yesterday.
    Baby, I just want to love you,
    to drown in the symphony of us,
    to weave our hearts into a brightness
    that defies the darkness.  

    I wonder everyday what this hell has done to you,
    what shadows have crept into your soul,
    for I see the weight you carry,
    the burdens that twist your heart.
    I didn’t want this trouble,
    this tangled up mess of our lives,
    I just want to be your baby,
    to nestle close in the warmth of your embrace,
    to feel safe in the cocoon
    of a love that knows no bounds.  

    I know there are things I don’t know,  
    secrets tucked away in the corners
    of your heart, mysteries that elude
    my grasp, and I wasn’t smart enough
    to unravel them, but still, I yearn
    to understand. Yet in this moment,
    it doesn’t matter in the end,
    for all that matters is the future,
    the promise of what could be,
    the flicker of hope that dances
    in the abyss of uncertainty.  

    The past is just a specter,
    a collection of moments that got us here,
    let’s not focus on the time lost,
    the echoes of what could have been,
    but let’s think about our newfound freedom,
    the vast expanse of possibility
    that stretches before us,
    an open field where we can run wild,
    where we can breathe life
    into our dreams,
    where love is the compass
    guiding us through the chaos.  

    Take my hand,
    let’s forge a path through the rubble,
    let’s build our sanctuary
    with the all the pieces of our hearts,
    for this love is fierce,
    and I promise I will protect and love you,
    with all the fury of a storm,
    with all the tenderness of dawn,
    and together we will climb,
    unfettered, unbroken,
    into the light of our own making.  

  • I will never be ashamed of how much I love you,  
    not in a world where judgment  
    hangs like ripe fruit on a twisted tree,  
    its branches heavy with the whispers.
    I’ve danced in the depths of this love,  
    plunging into its murky waters,
    the obsessions swirling around me like a storm,
    and I don’t care who casts their stones,
    who points their fingers,
    because your name is the only one
    that echoes in the hollow chamber of my heart.  



    But I want us to do this right this time,
    to stand hand in hand against the tide,
    to share our love like the gift it is,
    to proclaim it loud enough
    that the walls of this town shudder
    and the heavens themselves take note.
    Look, I want to shout,
    that’s my baby—
    the man who holds my heart
    like a delicate bird,
    and isn’t he amazing?
    The kind of amazing that makes the mundane
    feel like a miracle,
    the kind that turns ordinary days
    into a song sung beneath a golden sun.  



    I’m not a possessive person—
    that’s not my nature,
    but with you, it’s different.
    I want to claim you,
    to crown you my own,
    to say, “That man is my man,
    the one I come home to every night,
    the one I wake beside each morning.”
    And oh, how lucky I am,
    like a child in a candy store,
    the sweetness of your presence
    filling the empty spaces of my life,
    making me feel like the world
    is filled with promise and magic.  



    I don’t want anyone to be able
    to take that away from us,
    not the gossips, not the skeptics,
    for what we have is a fierce flame,
    proof of the beauty of devotion,
    and I will guard it with everything I am,
    a sentinel against the winds of doubt,
    because you are my heart,
    my home, my anchor,
    and in a world so quick to judge,
    I will stand firm,
    unashamed,
    unwavering,
    proclaiming the depths of my love
    for all to see.  

  • Can you celebrate how open I am  
    about my sexuality and fantasies,  
    if you can’t bear the poetry
    that spills like molten lava,
    the verses that ache with want,
    then can you handle me?
    I’m not the quiet woman you think I was 
    when you first met me.
    I’ve learned that my strength—
    my goddamn fire—
    is not a flicker to be dimmed,
    not a spark to be snuffed out.
    You either take me as I am
    or not at all, as I will you.
    I don’t care if I’m too much anymore
    the rawness of my truth
    shining like a beam,
    each note a declaration.  


    I want you so much;
    my desires are a frenzy,
    a wild wind howling at the edges
    of even my own perception,
    and I need you to be unafraid to face them,
    to dance in the chaos of my hurricane,
    to grip my malaise
    like it’s a ten-pound hammer,
    to endure the storms
    and embrace the fears—
    to stand firm while I whirl,
    a dervish of emotion,
    a whirlwind of need.  


    For this is who I am—
    Interlaced with challenges,
    threads of struggle and strife
    intertwined with the fierce pulse of my lust,
    my fire that flickers and roars,
    a duality that burns in the depths of my being.
    It is the best and the worst of me,
    both a blessing and a curse,
    each flame evidence 
    of the raw, unyielding truth
    that I am alive,
    vibrant in my contradictions.  


    I don’t want you to flinch 
    at the devils that twist in my mind,
    Sometimes I need you
    to come get lost in my fevers,
    consume my fire,
    billow the smoke from your lungs
    while howling our song,
    a battle cry against this silence
    that threatens to swallow us whole.
    Because there’s a grave difference
    between “I love you”
    and “I’ve got you,”
    a chasm that echoes
    with the weight of unspoken truths.  


    I need you to protect
    the calm you’ve given me,
    a haven where I can make sense
    of all the hell that rages within,
    a safe harbor in the storm.
    I need you to touch me
    without removing my peace,
    to ruin every version of love
    I’ve ever been lied to about,
    and used as a weapon to hurt me
    smudging my mascara for all the right reasons,
    splashing passion across the breadth
    of my heart.  


    I’m ready to go skinny-dipping
    in those eyes that once understood,
    that I am meant to be felt,
    not just seen,
    immersed in the depths of connection,
    where vulnerability spreads like wildfire,
    and I need you to be unafraid
    to feed me your secrets,
    to trust that I’ll be there in the morning,
    with the same kisses
    I gave you last night,
    a promise that lingers,
    a fire that never fades completely
    the embers always glowing
    Because even though 
    I love you with an intensity I’ve never known,
    I’ve got you, is my promise,
    and I always will. 

  • I’ve never wanted to tell all of my truth
    to anyone before—
    but here I am, a river unbridled,
    spilling out admissions like secrets
    torn from the pages of my heart,
    each drop a revelation,
    a confession without filter,
    despite the fear
    that I might seem dazed,
    a chaos of emotion in a teacup,
    swirling with the weight of my longing.  

    I've never been so ready
    for someone to know me deeply,
    to strip away the layers,
    like peeling an onion,
    each skin revealing the raw core,
    the essence of what I keep hidden,
    and I wonder, often,
    if you want me to know you
    in the same way,
    to dive into the depths
    of your fears and desires,
    to uncover the things
    that make your heart race,
    your favorite foods
    that dance on your tongue,
    what ignites your anger,
    and what stirs your passion.  

    I want to hear your favorite song,
    the one that echoes in your mind
    like a sweet refrain,
    and the memory from childhood
    that glimmers like a lost star,
    the first person who shattered
    your tender heart,
    leaving shards of longing
    scattered in the dark.
    What’s your favorite scary movie,
    the one that sends chills
    skittering down your spine,
    or the lyrics that draw forth tears,
    a catharsis written
    in the ink of your mind?  

    I want to know how you take your coffee,
    the warmth that fills your mornings,
    and your favorite restaurant,
    the fullness of flavors,
    where every bite feels like home,
    your favorite city,
    the one that cradles you,
    a place where your spirit unfolds
    like feeling the warmth of the sun.
    I need to know your favorite curse word,
    the one that slips from your lips
    like a secret indulgence,
    and the person you admire most,
    a beacon guiding your way.  

    Do cilantro and soap taste alike for you, too?
    I want to know if you could live
    this life all over again,
    what you’d change,
    what you’d keep the same,
    your favorite road trip snack,
    the guilty pleasure of your Taco Bell order,
    and your favorite meal
    that I could conjure for you,
    a gift crafted in the kitchen
    to nourish more than just your body.  

    But I also want to know the big things—
    why did you fall in love with me?
    What does our future look like,
    the dreams we weave together,
    the plans for this life
    that we dare to imagine?
    In the essence of us,
    I seek the threads of connection,
    the intricate patterns of our combined beings,
    intertwined in this delicate dance,
    as I spill my truth
    like an offering,
    and hope you’ll meet me
    with your own.  

  • I will be your loyal friend,
    the steadfast anchor in a storm-tossed sea,
    your adventure friend,
    ready to leap into the wild unknown,
    where the horizon stretches like
    whispered promise,
    each moment a thrill,
    each heartbeat a catalyst for laughter.  

    I’ll be your honest friend,
    the mirror reflecting your truths,
    your foodie friend,
    savoring the flavors of life together,
    each bite a shared delight,
    each meal a story woven
    from the threads of our conversations—
    rich, indulgent,
    a feast for the soul.  

    Your mentor friend,
    guiding you through shadows and light,
    the one who walks beside you,
    not ahead or behind,
    but in step with your journey,
    a quiet presence,
    a steady heartbeat in the cacophony of existence.  

    I’ll be your hang-out-and-do-nothing friend,
    the one who finds beauty in stillness,
    your friend who motivates,
    igniting the spark that flickers
    in the corners of your dreams,
    the flame that refuses to dim.
    I’ll be the one with the truest intentions,
    the one who loves fiercely,
    supporting you through the tempests
    and the tranquil days alike.  

    I’ll be your extroverted friend,
    the sunbeam that dances in your shadow,
    your introverted bestie,
    the sanctuary where silence speaks volumes,
    your friend that talks too much,
    a torrent of words spilling like rain,
    the one you find yourself
    in the worst kind of trouble with,
    a partner in mischief,
    our laughter echoing like thunder.  

    I’ll be your intellectual button pusher,
    the friend who makes you think,
    who stirs the pot of your mind,
    not in chaos but in clarity,
    and I’ll be your lazy Sunday friend,
    wrapped in pajamas,
    drinking coffee as the world blurs,
    eating pancakes that taste like dreams.  

    I’ll be your friend who’s really your family,
    the one who stands through everything,
    your best friend, your confidant,
    the one who never lies and always tries,
    I’ll be your boyfriend, your girlfriend,
    titles that dissolve like sugar in tea,
    for I don’t care what you call me,
    only that I am yours,
    and you are mine,
    woven together for all time,
    a bond unbreakable,
    a love unmeasured,
    a friendship that dances
    on the edges of everything 
    but always stays the center of it all.

  • I just want to breathe,
    like I did when you were here,
    each breath a gentle tide,
    rising and falling,
    a symphony of air,
    filling the spaces
    between heartbeats,
    the soft pulsing of life
    that thrummed in your presence.

    When the world asks,
    “How are you?”
    I want to answer,
    “Good,”
    and mean it,
    not just a mask,
    a painted and posted smile
    hiding the truths
    that twist like vines
    around my breast.
    In your absence,
    the air thickens,
    a fog of longing
    that clings to my skin,
    and I find myself gasping,
    choking on words
    I cannot say.

    In those moments
    when laughter danced
    like fireflies in the twilight,
    I was filled with a light
    that made the shadows retreat,
    and the mundane sparkled
    with the magic of us,
    each glance a silent promise,
    each almost touch a spark igniting
    the dry kindling of my heart.

    I crave that breath,
    the one that swells
    with possibility,
    the one that doesn’t falter
    when I speak your name,
    the one that doesn’t tremble
    under the weight of separation,
    but expands,
    fills the room,
    wraps itself around me
    like your arms,
    strong and steady,
    a refuge.

    Oh, to be able to say,
    “Good,”
    and mean it,
    to let the truth flow
    like a river,
    clear and deep,
    instead of the murky waters
    that swirl in my chest,
    the unspoken fears,
    the aching void
    where your laughter used to echo.

    With you, I was alive,
    each breath a testament
    to the beauty of connection,
    to the thrill of the ordinary,
    the magic woven
    into the fabric of the everyday.
    So I hold on to that memory,
    the way I could breathe
    when you were in the room,
    and I yearn
    to reclaim that ease,
    to find that rhythm again,
    and whisper to the world,
    “Yes, I am good,”
    with a heart full of truth,
    and the light of your love
    guiding me home.

  • I want to excavate your spirit,
    like an ancient tree, worn and gnarled,
    To uncover the dreams that flicker
    Like the neon signs of a forgotten diner,
    Promises of pancakes at dawn,
    And mistakes, those sharp shards of glass
    That cut and glitter underfoot—
    To uncover dreams that shimmer
    Like the last rays of sun on a summer lake,
    And those mistakes, rough pebbles
    You’ve tucked away in your pocket,
    Each one a story—
    What moments shaped you into this playful spirit,
    The one who dons humor like a well-worn jacket
    But holds beneath it a heart stitched with longing?
    What sculpted you into this playful jester,
    The one who tosses laughter like confetti
    But hides a heart tethered to a quiet ache?


    What was it like growing up with loving sisters,
    In a whirlwind of dresses and whispered secrets,
    The sound of hairbrushes tangled in laughter,
    Racing down the hallway,
    Or perhaps a battleground of rolling eyes,
    Was there a sharp sting of sibling rivalry?
    Or did love wrap around you like a favorite blanket,
    Worn soft from years of hugs,
    Creating a fortress where you felt known,
    Respected, cradled in the arms of chaos?


    What impossible dreams swirl in your mind,
    Like clouds drifting just out of reach,
    Unreachable stars dangling just beyond your grasp,
    While the weight of expectations binds your feet?
    Like a kite caught in the branches of a high tree,
    the kind of dreams that feel like
    a rollercoaster ride at dusk,
    exciting yet terrifying,
    What stirs your heart to swell with hope,
    And what evanescent sorrow slips through your fingers,
    Leaving only the trail of tears on a dusty road?
    And what leaves you weeping in silence,
    Like a forgotten song on a dusty record player?
    Is there a trait you cradle,
    a shimmering jewel you adore,
    a golden thread of joy you hold dear,
    or a thorn that burrows,
    like a persistent itch beneath the skin,
    Reflecting your raw, unvarnished duality?


    Is there a riddle life has woven,
    A puzzle wrapped in the fog of mornings,
    A question that lingers like the scent of burnt toast?
    Like a cat slinking through the night,
    leaving you puzzled,
    with a heart full of wonder?
    I long to be the refuge in your storm,
    The soft place where your secrets unfurl,
    Because I am a fool for every quirk and nuance of you,
    Each laugh a note in my offbeat song,
    Each sigh a brushstroke on the canvas of my thoughts.


    When I’m beside you,
    It’s as if I shed the armor of pretense,
    Standing bare, like a tree in winter,
    Stripped of leaves, yet alive,
    For the first time,
    In the glow of your presence—
    Once a solitary flame,
    Now I crave your warmth,
    A dance of souls beneath the streetlight's flicker,
    Where loneliness fades into starlit whispers,
    And the world loses its jagged edges,
    As I find myself anew,
    In the refuge of your laughter,
    In the embrace of our truth,
    Like the lyrics of a forgotten song
    that finally finds the right melody.

  • my heart beats for
    the constellation of we
    so long is this trail of tears
    climbing false summits
    without a compass near

    I look to the sky 
    for courage to continue
    over every pass
    season after season
    just keep walking
    through the weeping 
    lovegrass

    every night 
    I close my eyes
    the light of us, 
    that proof of life
    darts in and out
    never settles
    true-to-life

    I wink in the darkness 
    to the left eye of Horas
    I beg the powers of Selene 
    this ephemeral heart 
    must sleep to dream
    of your eyes and your smile
    of your laugh that makes
    my mortal heart sing 

    come back to me
    my sweet Persephone
    my Goddess personified 
    among the sparkle of falling leaves
    your virgin love, Spica rays
    brighter than the sun 
    I promise you my heart
    you're the one

  • I know you might be scared,
    your shadow a sentinel looming
    over the threshold of my heart,
    guarding the memories like relics,
    afraid I’m in love with a mirage,
    the faded echoes of who you were—
    but please, do not worry,
    for this is not the truth.

    Years have slipped through my fingers
    like water from a cracked vessel,
    each moment a ripple in a still lake,
    mostly feeling like a solitary whisper,
    the silence stretching like a taut wire
    between what was and what is,
    my heart reaching for the cliff notes,
    the briefest glimpses of a vast landscape,
    and yet, oh, how I cherished them,
    like glimmers of sunlight breaking
    through storm clouds, promising that the full story
    would be the best I’ve ever known.

    Do not misunderstand me;
    I do not seek a knight in shining armor,
    for I know the truth of you,
    the truth of us—
    humans with scars and shadows,
    stumbling through a labyrinth of life,
    where love flickers like a candle
    in a drafty room, struggling to stay alight.
    Isn’t love, then, the daring choice
    to embrace the one whose flaws
    become the very fabric of our connection?
    To choose the person
    with whom we dare to lay bare
    the most unrefined parts of ourselves,
    and trust that love will endure,
    a steady flame amidst the chaos.

    Words falter like footsteps on gravel,
    scattering against the weight of meaning,
    as I struggle to articulate
    the essence of this love,
    this fierce, unyielding force
    that is beyond special—not
    woven in the softness of sweet moments,
    but forged in the heat of trials,
    the hardest journey I’ve ever willingly faced,
    trudging through the mire of uncertainty,
    the heaviness clinging
    like mist on a cold morning.

    And still, my heart beats for you,
    like a steady drum in the silence,
    through all the terrible storms,
    through the hurt that wraps
    its tendrils around our days.
    I would traverse this path again,
    if it meant sharing my life with you,
    for you are the beacon
    guiding me through the darkest nights.
    Let us offer each other grace,
    to navigate the wreckage of the past,
    for I know that if we can withstand
    the tempests, the shadows,
    and still rise to meet one another,
    this love—
    this wild, beautiful, relentless love—
    is the only truth I dare to hold,
    as we learn to embrace our flaws,
    the imperfect,
    and the intricate dance
    of being human together.

  • I fall asleep thinking about kissing you,
    the soft warmth of your lips,
    an echo of summer evenings,
    when the world outside fades,
    and whispers of longing rise like steam,
    curling around us, enveloping,
    as if the air itself knows our secret.

    In the quiet of night,
    I trace the contours of your smile,
    the way laughter dances in your eyes,
    how your voice hums a melody,
    a lullaby that lingers,
    tugging at the edges of my dreams,
    pulling me deeper into the warmth of your embrace.

    Each thought a gesture,
    painting our moments in hues
    of desire and tenderness,
    the electric pulse of connection,
    the sweet tension of anticipation,
    as I imagine the world melting away—
    just you, just me,
    lost in the gravity of that kiss.

    What is it about you
    that softens the edges of my heart,
    that stirs the quiet places within,
    awakening the wildness I thought I tamed?
    In the stillness, I surrender,
    letting the night cradle my yearning,
    the unspoken truths that linger
    like shadows in the moonlight.

    I fall asleep thinking about kissing you,
    and in that moment, I am free—
    free to weave our story into a delightful tangle,
    each thread a memory, a hope, a dream,
    each kiss a promise that transcends the mundane,
    that breathes life into the ordinary.

    Here, in the depths of fantasy,
    the world blurs,
    and all that matters is the softness of your touch,
    the way our beings intertwine,
    the uncharted territory of our bodies,
    where the language of desire speaks louder
    than the silence of the waking hours.

    I fall asleep thinking about kissing you,
    and with each gentle breath,
    I carve out a space for us,
    a realm where love is not just a whisper,
    but a resounding symphony,
    a fierce declaration of what it means
    to be alive in this mired world,
    to embrace the beauty of longing,
    and to know, in the depths of night,
    that every thought of you
    is a spark igniting the darkness,
    a flame that warms the edges of my lonely heart.

  • I want to be a rainbow in your cloud,  
    A splash of color in your gray,  
    A shimmering arc that bends the sorrow,  
    A promise woven in the fray.

    In the heavy silence of your despair,  
    Where shadows linger, thick and low,  
    I long to rise, a vibrant flare,  
    To pierce the gloom with hues that glow.

    When storms rage loud and thunder shakes,  
    When hope is drowned in sheets of rain,  
    Let me be the light that softly breaks,  
    A prism spun from all your pain.

    I want to be the bridge of light,  
    The fleeting beauty that you see,  
    A fleeting moment, pure and bright,  
    A fleeting glimpse of what could be.

    For life can be a uproar, wild,  
    A swirling rainstorm, fierce and stark,  
    Yet in the depths, where dreams are filed,  
    I’ll bloom, a flower in the dark.

    So let me be your rainbow, dear,  
    A splash of joy, a whispered cheer,  
    In every drop of sorrow’s tear,  
    Let love’s reflection draw you near.

On True Love