At lunch I bought a pear,
its shape: a quiet joke.
I cut it clean and slowly,
the blade, the slice, the poke.

It tasted like a breather,
not sweet, just real and right.
Like silence in the stairwell
or breezes late at night.

The afternoon unknotted,
each task a gentler climb.
I fed the cat. I folded shirts.
You’re not here. I’m fine.

You're like fireflies in July
The air is thick
The night is dark
Your light mesmerizing me from where I stand
I'll try all night to catch up
Quietly moving through the dark
Waiting to see your glow beside me
But I'm too clumsy
And I am not quiet
And you're always five steps ahead

I’ve been through enough
to know silence can be louder than screams.
Enough to know
“I'm fine” usually means
I'm not.

I’ve had nights
where the weight got heavy,
but I held it anyway.
No applause.
No witness.
Just me
and the dark
playing tug-of-war with my peace.

But I never let go.
Even when I wanted to.

There’s a version of me
I used to mourn
the one before the heartbreak,
before the trust got shattered,
before I learned
people only love you
when it's easy.

Now I move slower,
but wiser.
I speak less,
but mean more.
I lost some friends,
but I found my spine.

The ink on my hand
ain’t decoration
it’s declaration.
Proof I’ve made it this far,
even if the road
was more cuts than comfort.

I don’t expect perfect anymore.
Just real.
Just effort.
Just peace that don’t ask me
to shrink to fit inside it.

I’m not healed,
but I’m healing.
Not fearless,
but brave.
Still got days
where I look in the mirror
and ask,
“Am I really built for this?”

And every time,
my reflection answers,
“You really are.”

They asked him,
"How does one become a poet?"

He answered,
with the weight of stars in his voice:

"If you can read
the lines etched on your mother’s hands,
and the furrows folded between her eyes
then you are already a poet.

Go now
and savor the journey into madness."