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.

Tracks That Night

It was late, the world drawn tight,
The house held still in soft dim light.
You took the dog out, routine, small,
Just moonlight spilling down the hall.

Then back inside—unnoticed trail,
Dog po op tracks, a quiet fail.
But something deep inside me snapped,
A thousand weights the moment tapped.

I raised my voice, too sharp, too loud,
Anger dressed in shameful shroud.
And all the while, behind one door,
Our son was sleeping on the floor.

His room aglow with soft night sounds,
While I let darkness do its rounds.
Not at you—but at the world,
At every scar my mind still hurled.

The bodies seen in crowded halls,
Cold eyes beneath fluorescent calls.
The screams that echoed, sharp and raw,
When steel gave way on 35W’s maw.

All of it, like smoke, unseen—
But thick and choking in between
The cracks of life, the calm we fake,
Until the soul begins to break.

You didn’t cause the flood that came—
You just stood still and took the blame.
Your hands had only tried to care,
But I threw anger into the air.

And now, regret—too wide to name,
I ache with guilt, I burn with shame.
I’d give up years to fix that night,
To hold you close, not choose the fight.

He slept through all, our little one,
While I forgot who I’d become.
But I remember now—I swear—
The love that built this home with care.

Forgive me, if you can, someday,
Though I can’t look myself that way.
But I’ll keep trying, step by step—
For you, for him, while the world slept.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Summer Jetta Love

We hit the road in July’s blaze,
A Jetta GLI stuck in heatwave haze.
No A/C, just wind and sun,
Two fools on fire, just having fun.

At a truckstop off the Interstate,
We found fake teeth—it felt like fate.
You wore them grinning ear to ear,
We laughed so hard we wiped a tear.

The drag strip roared, chrome cars in line,
You called one “se xy,” I said “It’s fine.”
We wandered through that motor maze,
Lost in torque and sun-drenched daze.

Later, under neon skies,
Italian plates and garlic ties.
Your hand found mine, your laugh stayed sweet,
Love poured out in wine and heat.

But what stayed burned behind my eyes—
That Off-Broadway, those city skies.
You in a turquoise dress so bright,
It made the whole da mn stage feel light.

You smiled like you were born to shine,
And every word, each look, was mine.
The city buzzed, the night felt new—
And all I saw was simply you.

That’s when I knew, deep in my chest,
Through sweat, fake teeth, and all the rest—
That real love isn’t planned or dressed,
It’s turquoise nights, and saying yes.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

When She Comes

I am young, with restless fire,
A heart that hums with soft desire.
Not for games or passing thrills,
But for the one who quiets chills.

I walk through nights with open eyes,
Beneath the stars, beneath the skies.
Watching, waiting, soul in bloom,
For her to step into the room.

Not just beauty, though I dream
Of eyes that hold a secret gleam—
But grace, and laughter rich and free,
A voice that sings in sync with me.

I’ve seen the echoes, danced with ghosts,
Loved too fast and lost the most.
But I believe—no need to chase,
She’ll find me in the perfect place.

I’ll know her not by just her face,
But by the calm she brings to space.
A presence warm, a touch sincere,
The kind that pulls your future near.

She’ll ask for truth, not clever lines,
She’ll match the rhythm in my signs.
And when she speaks, the world will dim—
The noise will fade, the light will swim.

I’ll give her all, without a fight—
My morning thoughts, my dreams at night.
And in her eyes, I’ll finally see
The love I saved was meant to be.

So I wait—not lost, but sure—
That love that’s real will still endure.
And when she comes, I will not run—
For I’ll have known she was the one.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

The Leftover Man

I gave the world my younger years,
My sweat, my hands, my quiet tears.
Built homes from bones and dreams from dust,
Held hearts like glass, in sacred trust.

Love, I poured it like a flood,
Painted pain in shades of blood.
A thousand gifts I gave away—
Now all that’s mine is shades of gray.

My canvas bare, my toolbox closed,
Muscles firm, but heart exposed.
The artist still lives in these veins,
But carries scars like weathered chains.

I tried to keep the center whole,
Held tight the threads, played every role.
To keep the family safe and near—
Their laughter close, their silence clear.

I fought for “us” when it got tough,
When words were few, and love felt rough.
But sometimes even strongest glue
Can’t hold a bond that’s split in two.

They say “Start over,” like it’s light,
Like fire still burns through every night.
But embers don’t always crave the flame,
And effort’s not a younger man’s game.

Could I love again? I don’t know.
There’s warmth still buried under snow.
I’m fit, I’m fierce, my hands still build,
But the soul inside feels half-unwilled.

Yet if she came, with eyes that see
The scarred masterpiece inside of me—
Would I rise, and try once more?
Or just nod gently, close that door?

I have so much—but is it wise
To trade the calm for unknown skies?
Still, love is work, and I’m a man
Who’s built more life than most folks can.

I kept the fire, I fed the flame,
I stayed when others left the game.
For family, I bled and tried—
I’d do it all again with pride.

So maybe I’ll just wait and see—
If love returns, it earns its key.
Not desperate, but open wide—
A life rebuilt, with none to hide.

Guatemala

I was young,
Military Police with clean new boots
And a chest full of hope pride,
Still thinking service was about salutes,
Not shadows on the other side.

They said, “Guatemala—it won’t be bad.”
Jungle duty, heat and aid.
We packed like boys chasing purpose,
Not knowing what price would be paid.

The border near El Salvador—
Soldiers, hesitant tourists, turned.
A mission blurred into ambush light,
And suddenly, everything burned.

The first shot cracked like thunder,
Then chaos danced through every tree.
My rifle rose before I could think,
Like it already knew what I’d need to be.

And there he was.

Not a ghost. Not some faceless foe.
A man, breathing, crouched in the brush—
Too real, too human, too close.

No flak vest on me. Just sweat and breath.
And I saw him—thank God, I saw him—
His eyes locked with mine
In that final second between life and death.

His collar had red-threaded logos,
Symbols I’d never seen before.
But they’re seared in me now,
Just like the way he hit the jungle floor.

I don’t remember pulling the trigger—
Only the recoil and sound,
And how silence came after,
Like the jungle held its breath all around.

I stared at his body like it might move,
Like maybe I’d made some mistake.
But war doesn’t offer rewinds
Or give back the things it takes.

Later, the others spoke in code:
Rules of engagement, mission clear.
But all I could see were his eyes,
Still there in my mind, year after year.

They never teach you
How a single second can break a man—
How you carry a stranger’s final breath
Long after your tour ends and the years expand.

I went there thinking I’d find meaning,
Some noble fire in uniform thread.
But in Guatemala, I met a man—
And left with part of myself dead.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Empty Roads, Endless Halls

Before dawn I join the silent rush,
A pharmacy stocked with hope and fear—
Vials lined in antiseptic glow,
Yet nothing cures what’s happening here.

The freeway’s ghosted lanes stretch wide,
No horns, no engines—just my breath
As I speed toward fluorescent light,
Where life and death collide in death.

In scrubs I stand behind the counter,
Counting EUA vials meant to heal,
While down the hall a silent parade
Marches past with no appeal.

Sheeted shapes on carts roll by,
Escorted by the same grim guards—
Faces hidden, fortunes gone,
A daily tally none disregard.

I slip through ICU’s tense air,
Where families huddle, voices low,
Tears carve tracks through hospital blue,
In corners where no cameras go.

Mothers clutching empty hands,
Fathers bowed in shadowed grief—
Their cries spill out into the lobby,
Seeking solace, finding none relief.

I adjust the orders, sign the slips,
Check the doses, check the charts—
Each dose a promise, each breath a gift,
Yet still the world falls apart.

Security nods, a quiet pact,
We see too much to look away.
Another cart, another soul,
Another line crossed in the fray.

Shift bleeds into sleepless night,
And still the bodies come and go—
I lock the cabinets, dim the lights,
Then close the door on sorrow’s show.

Home at last, I shed my mask,
Carry silence in my bones—
Empty roads and endless halls,
And all the grief we call our own.

But at sunrise I trade my keys
For pedals, tires, and open air—
I cycle out where wild things grow,
Where wind and sunlight clear despair.

Through wooded trails and river bends,
My heartbeat finds a steadier drum—
Nature’s chorus soothes the ache,
And ghosts recede with every hum.

The freeway’s still, but now it’s home,
My bike and I beneath blue domes—
Each mile a small rebirth of hope,
A promise that I’m not alone.

And though the halls will call me back,
I carry forests in my chest—
For in the quiet pines and peaks,
I’ve found a way to breathe—and rest.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved