In your dreams
you're a different person
could it be this-
that you prefer that version?

The Devil
Doesn’t tear you down
He builds you up
Until

You believe you can
Do it alone
Then he smiles
As you fall

And you always fall

Leaving the mirror feels like walking out of a shadow,
You try to piece together the fragments,
Accepting they will never mirror you again.
Some might say it’s your fault,
But it feels like walking through life
With a quiet strength where there once was emptiness.
Solitude.
Acceptance.
Self-compassion.
Growth.
Patienc­e.
Stillness.
Gratitude.
Understanding.
Trusting your own reflection.
No longer seeking validation,
No longer seeing yourself in others.
The image was false,
But the truth is clearer now,
The quiet voice that was always there,
Unshaken.
The grief fades—
Not gone, but transformed.

Strength.
Awareness.
A new beginning.

Poems DON’T bloom—
They rupture.
They ignite,
Like a fire in your soul,
Waiting to explode,
Like gasoline in a burning room.

Poems
Are those
Who land deeper than the largest crevasse—
Those that leave you glaring,
Wide—unblinking eyes.

Waiting for the next punch
To your heart,
Like music crashing into your body
When you have the volume too loud.

Poems are meant to claw,
To rip,
Open your ribcage,
To smear
Your blood—pain—EVERYTHING
In front of you,
To show you it’s okay
For ALL to exist;
To trick
Your heart
To love,
Hate,
To turn fear
Into fate.

There are supposed to drip blood
In words that were NEVER meant to be said.

Every line,
Something I couldn’t bellow,
So I sharpened
My words like a knife,
Till my words bled
Blood—
I could never give back.

I LIVE for blood,
I LIVE for pain.
I LIVE for the world to not
Care
What it’s left for me,
What the world’s done to let me decay.

Each verse of silence,
Each verse of pain,
Each verse of anger,
Of shame,
Or hate,
Of love,
IS YEARS
OF SWALLOWING
MY OWN BLOOD.

YEARS.
OF HATING MYSELF.
YEARS.
OF NOT TRUSTING ANYONE
Who said…
“I’m here,”
“I’ll listen,”
“I’ll help.”

LET THAT BURN.

YEARS.
OF PAIN.
YEARS.
OF SHAME,
FOR WHAT THEY DID,
FOR HOW THE WORLD
TAUGHT ME WRONG.

You call my poems BRAVE!?
…THEIR SURVIVAL.
THEIR BLOOD.
I WAS NEVER
ABLE TO PUT BACK
IN MY BODY.

Poems are my baggage;
Each weighs—
A ton.

What is a poem?
A POEM?
It’s the moment before you scream,
When you realize you can’t say
What’s digging into your mind.
It’s rhyming stanzas
Disguised as hatred.
It’s love
Dressed as rhythm.
It’s pain
Hidden
As syllables,
Each word—my teeth.

Poems are MEANT
To be messy,
MEANT
To be ugly,
MEANT
TO LIVE—

Even when others
Think they shouldn’t have ever
Lived that long,
When you’re told to leave it in your head.

You want a Poem?
SIT in my blood.
I’LL sit in yours.
I’ll comfort you,
If you do the same.
I’ll be there in your brightness,
And in your darkness,
With the faint glow of the candle
To illuminate
Your shattered
Ship.

Writing is a freedom;
It’s everything
Anyone could need.

A poem doesn’t need to be perfect—
…just…let it be you.

THAT’S what a poem is MEANT
To do.

wind through the willows.

bird song trilling
from where time is the silence
falling into the valley.

sunlight beneath the leaves.
the grass bends from where you lay.
foxglove gentle and blooming in your eyes.

each step
slow and certain.
i fall into your open arms.

love rests here, among the moss and mist.
the trees, the sky, the flowers
know our first kiss.

and the wind through the trees  
whistles every mystery gone.

we sigh the words we were always meant to say.

clouds may wander blue sky
but love stays
sure and stubborn
pressing white petals always in our hearts.

You can't squeeze
from a stone any juice
go in search in a garden
for a ripened fruit

someone's heart
you can't claim
love is such
call it by any name

nothing can be
as desired as not-wanting
in your self-created sufficiency
where would there be any disappointing?