They’ll speak in sharp tones,
cast judgment like stones,
but you were not born
to carry their fear.
You’re not here
to fold beneath opinions
or shrink to fit
the comfort of cowards.

You are not their whisper.
Not their email chain.
Not the sideways glance
from behind safe walls.
You are not a problem
just because they can’t see your worth.

Your soul is ancient.
It’s carved from fire,
tempered in days
when you showed up
while they stayed silent.
Your work matters.
Your voice echoes truth.
You’ve held space where others vanished.
You’ve stood tall where others bowed.

So let their criticism pass
like wind over steel
feel it,
but do not wear it.

Because it’s not the words
that hurt you.
It’s the belief that they’re true.

When you let that belief die,
you are free.
Free to be fierce.
Free to be whole.
Free to give your gifts
without asking for permission.

Their noise means nothing
compared to the quiet power
rising inside you.

You don’t need a pat on the back
from people
who couldn’t carry your pain
for five minutes.

You don’t need their yes.
You already have your soul’s blessing.
And that is enough.
That has always been enough.

So move forward.
Speak clear.
Hold your worth like armor.
And walk like you belong.
Because you do.
You always did.

People sit on their ***** and moan,
throwing words like stones at shadows.
They write poems filled with nothing
no light in the dark,
no mirror to the soul,
no love for the hummingbird
or the bee.

Just more moaning.
This politician. That one.
Mona, Mona, moan.
A parade of little monkeys
squatting by a muddy river,
scratching their bums,
flicking poo across the stream
instead of feeling the sun
on their skin.

Where is the poem
that breathes with wonder?
That holds the air
like a newborn holds light?
That smells the flowers,
stands in the shade of a tree,
and says thank you?

We take too much for granted.

I don’t want to start my day
moaning about someone
who doesn’t even know I exist.
What good is a poem
that turns hearts bitter
and forgets the sky above?

I’d rather write beauty.
Write something that matters.
Something that smiles back.

Start with your own bubble.
Change what’s close,
what your hands can reach.
If you don’t like what’s there,
stretch out and change it.
That’s where meaning lives.

Go outside.
Touch the day.
Feel the wonder of difference
how strange and beautiful we are.
Walk on the beach.
Hold the air,
hold the sun,
hold the hand of someone
who does make a difference.

Life is short, dear friend.
Nothing is promised.
We take each other for granted
we take everything for granted.
When last did you let an ant
crawl across your hand
and just say, “Wow”?
Then gently place it back
where it came from?

Now we squash it.
**** it.
Feel like kings.
“Yeah, we showed it.”
But we show nothing.

I have my dogs
mommy and her two boys.
I’ve never seen a love so whole.
Yet we humans
we’ve lost the plot.
We moan and complain
instead of complimenting,
hugging,
offering food,
buying coffee for a stranger,
or just saying,
I’m glad you’re here.

We fixate on the wrong things,
throwing poo
when we could be planting trees.

Learn something.
Give something.
Grow something.

Acknowledge the bad — yes
but don’t live there.
Don’t let your little rowboat
circle a storm
when just a few more strokes
could bring you peace.

Beauty waits quietly
on the front step.
You don’t need a plane ticket.
Sometimes it’s a bird’s song.
Sometimes it’s the breath in your chest.

So when the world moans
sing.

And mean it.

There was a snake
in your wineglass
or so you swore,
clutching your belly
like betrayal poured into your gut.

But it was a bow,
hanging quiet on the wall,
its shadow curved like doubt,
and still
you burned with poison
that was never there.

You made yourself sick with what you thought you saw.

Then there was the runner
barefoot prophet chasing fire,
arms outstretched like hope could be wrestled
from the sky.

He drank rivers dry
and still died of thirst.
His cane fell
and trees grew from the grave.

He never caught the sun.
But the sun scorched his name
into the earth.

You may never reach glory, but you’ll die a sermon if you run hard enough.
That’s the second lie.
Or maybe it’s truth.

Then came the fool,
eyes wide,
looking down a well
and seeing the moon trapped like a silver ghost.

He ran for a hook
not sense
and tried to fish the night from the water.
Rope snapped.
Back cracked.
Moon untouched.

And he still smiled,
told everyone
he’d saved the sky.

Delusion is lighter to carry than disappointment.
That’s the third lie.
The one we keep.

And now, you.
Drinking shadows.
Chasing fire.
Hooking reflections.

You build temples from misunderstanding.
You tattoo your fears on glass
and swear they bit you.

But the venom is your own.
The sun never owed you warmth.
And the moon was never drowning.

You were.

So here’s the truth within
We suffer by choice,
die by obsession,
and live inside illusions
that wear our fingerprints like mirrors.

Look close
it’s not the snake,
not the sun,
not the moon.

It’s you.

I love your soft, floppy ears
how they melt between my fingers,
like warm suede in sunlight,
soothing, gentle,
a rhythm I could play for hours.

You know it too
the way you nuzzle closer
when I stop,
tilting your head,
that silly, sweet face
that says, “Dad, don’t stop now.”

There’s magic in that touch,
how you lean in,
pushing deeper into my palm,
content, spoiled,
and I wouldn’t have it
any other way.

The others get jealous
paws tapping, tails wagging,
elbows nudging in,
wanting their share
of the ear-scratch symphony.

And I love them all,
my pack of fur-babies,
each one a heartbeat,
a comfort,
a warm body on a cold day.

But there’s something
about those ears,
so soft,
so calming
when the world gets loud,
I just reach for you,
twirl a fold of velvet fur,
and everything slows.

We watch TV like this,
it's called a cuddle puddle,
me and you and the others
a couch full of love,
but your ears in my hands?
That’s the win-win
I never knew I needed.

I wake to spite, not morning's grace
A cracked old mug, a creased-up face.
These hands once built, now just complain,
These legs just ache, then ache again.
The world outside? A painted fraud.
At time I think Oh My Lord.
Sunrise? Just a cosmic ****.
In the mirror I see the same old Sod.
Bed’s a trap, and so’s the day.
It’s hell whichever game you play.

I sneer at hope, I scoff at light,
I'd punch a prayer clean out of sight!
The honest type? They make me gag,
Too soft to stand, too proud to sag.
No poem saves, no brush redeems,
No truth survives the in-betweens.
My thoughts? Let’s say they’d earn a cell
But I’m too bored these days to raise that hell.

I'm not insane, I’m just aware
That dreams don't buy you decent air.
I’m not depressed, just fully clear
There’s nothing left to want down here.
I bark, I *****, I bite my lip,
Then sip regret like whiskey drip.
I think of death with half a grin
Then **** myself for love again.

So here I sit, a charming wreck,
With wisdom hanging off my neck.
The world can burn, or go bake a pie
I'll judge it all and never try.
They say "Go Find yourself some peace!"
I guess I would rather find release.
well, now I’ve looked up there not once
but twice...
It hides beneath my unpaid vice.
But cheers to life, this grand hooray!
Where fools get rich, and cynics pay.

Our love was deeper than the ocean
deeper than Poseidon's sighs, where leviathans hum lullabies to sleeping coral,
our love churned beneath sapphire trenches — ancient, glowing,
etched in whale-song scripts that only the stars could read.
It spiraled downward past jellyfish lanterns, trailing silk,
where seaweed reached like dreaming fingers toward the memory of moonlight.

We walked along the shore
fairy-light footsteps, hands in clutch,
we danced across the silver moonlit shore,
where the sea birds screamed stories to the waves
and the waves replied with thunderous applause.
Tiny ***** in brown tuxedos spun pirouettes,
carrying secrets in shells, clicking out riddles for the sand to decode.

Falling through the clouds like a skydiver without a parachute
we plummeted like wingless angels giggling in gusts,
through cotton-candy cumulonimbus, pierced by rainbow veins.
A trumpet played jazz for the falling golden, reckless,
and somewhere below, Earth slipped on her own rhythm,
dodging our love like a bashful muse.

We walked through the fields
across hills and plains soaked in buttercup breath,
fields covered in flowers drunk on the sun’s honey.
The grass whispered ballads in chlorophyll tongues,
while rivers drew lazy spirals, their laughter tickling the rocks.
Above, the sky blushed cerulean, scattered with ink-drop swallows
and a single cloud shaped like a promise we never kept.

Stars sang lullabies for the tides, their voices stitched with cosmic thread,
and moons — glowing like prophets —drifted in dream-silk robes.
The sands of starlit beaches shimmered with golden orbs,
rolling like marbles tossed by gods with time to spare.
And we, mad and luminous, kissed in the tide’s breath
as if the universe had no need for sanity, only sound and spark.

What bleeds
without wound?
What rises
before it knows it fell?

I am
the echo of something never said,
the smoke from fires still dreaming
of stars.

Once, I mistook love
for a door.
Now I know
it was the house,
and I had only just
learned how to knock.

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
So I kept my eyes full of sky
while the world pulled at my ankles.

They told me
to move on
I asked,
“But what if the road bends backward
to meet the heart again?”

I have worn regret
like a crown of thorns,
but let me tell you
even thorns soften
when touched by time.

What if the one you wait for
is still being carved
from storms you haven’t met?

What if you are
the answer
to someone else’s broken prayer?

I’ve walked through years
like forests with no compass,
but still
the trees whispered,
"There is more."

There is always more.
Even when the book closes,
another begins
in the margin.

"The wound is where the light enters you."
Then call me lantern
cracked, but burning.
Flickering with the faith
that love returns
in stranger forms,
at stranger times.

Who dares to love again
after the flood?

You do.

You
the riddle.
You
the answer waiting
in the next smile,
the next silence,
the next hand that doesn’t let go
when the lights go out.

This is not the end.
It never was.

Live like the universe
made you on purpose.
Love like forgetting
was never the goal.

Somewhere,
someone waits
not to complete you,
but to witness
your becoming.

And when they arrive
you’ll know.

You’ll know by the way
your name feels
safe
in their mouth
Spoken softly
on a
breeze.