I am not a poet.

My words were never made for the masses,
Made to pry emotions from your heart.
Rhyme can sometimes leave me at a loss,
And my inkwell is more often empty than not.

I am not a poet.

I can write only what I know and feel,
Each poem I give a little piece of me.
Every line is just a wisp away from existence.
Each poem might just be the last I write.

I am not a poet.

Yet why do you feel like my muse?
Your eyes remind me of a thousand places,
Like sea glass glinting green in the hush of tide.
Your voice has its command over my pulse.

I am not a poet.

But poetry you are.
How else do I describe this feeling,
If not with flowery words and rhyme.
And yet no words can hold it right.

I am not a poet.

I would be lost if I were.
For if I give a piece of me,
It will always be here in this poem,
With You.

To be a woman is to be objectified.
Through your eyes,
I am never just a soul wearing skin,
I am only skin. A body.
And this body
has been too thin.
Not thin enough.
Beautiful, but only when it gives you what you want.

I’ve been told to change, to squeeze,
to mold myself into your ideal:
perfect skin, perfect shape,
a perfect everything,
forever growing younger instead of older.

But I don’t need your commentary.
I don’t want your opinions.
Because I don’t need you to want me.
I don’t want to be craved,
I want to be earned.

This body is just a vessel.
My soul is what quenches thirst.
It loves, not to ******, but to nurture.
It builds, it softens, it embellishes your light.

Only the emotionally fluent
and the spiritually grounded
may proceed to touch this mind,
or this body.

I am not for everyone.
Nor do I want to be.

I’m sorry I loved you like that,
like my soul already knew you.

Not just the magnetic force of you,
but every version you buried:
the boy who flinched,
the man who ran,
the heart that never thought it was worth staying for.

I saw it all,
the shadows, the fractures,
the beautiful, broken mess of you.
And I loved you anyway.

I’m sorry I loved you
the way I did,
with everything,
when you were only ever half-open.
I’m sorry for the love
your hands weren’t
steady enough to hold.
I’m sorry I still carry it,
fiercely, quietly,
like it has no expiration date.

I am holding a love
with no destination.
It floods me without warning,
fills me with purpose,
With all the fire of arrival, and nothing waiting on the other side.

No, he is not
waiting at the gate.
He’s nowhere.
And this love,
it’s too vast for my body,
too loud for sleep,
too loyal
to walk away.

This grief,
this relentless, boundless
love was meant to land
in his heart.
Always.
Instead it circles inside me,
wings beating
against bone,
a bird
that can’t find
a place to perch.

I can’t destroy it.
I won’t.
It’s the last thing I have
that still knows
his shape.

But it’s heavy.
It trembles.
It begs for release.
And I am breaking
under the weight
of what cannot be given.

I wasn’t made for screens and noise,
For empty days and plastic joys.
There’s something deeper in my chest,
A call to rise, a silent quest.

My hands were shaped to hold a flame,
Not chase applause, not play the game.
I feel the weight of unseen wars,
Fought in silence, behind closed doors.

The dragons now wear modern skin,
Anxiety, the grind, the spin.
They steal our peace, they drain our light,
And yet we smile, too tired to fight.

The princess isn’t locked away,
She’s here in every break of day.
She’s love I guard, the voice I know,
The reason I won’t let life go.

But in this world of ticking time,
Where dreams are shelved and truth’s a mime,
A warrior soul feels out of place,
Still searching for its rightful space.

Yet I endure, I still ignite,
A flicker in the hollow night.
If not to win, then just to try,
To live with heart before I die.

My thoughts are terracotta armies
not for war,
but for remembering.
Buried beneath the sleep-skin of time,
fragile, intentional,
but already forgetting
what they were meant to protect.

Each soldier a hypothesis.
Each silence, a map.
Each crack—a failed attempt
to understand why people leave
even when they say they won’t.

Dreams flow like soldered platinum,
beautiful in the way
only toxic metals shimmer
they promise softness,
but dry into armor
you didn’t ask to wear.

I don’t mind the impact,
the crash,
the unpredictable tide of another’s undoing
because even oceans
must exhale.
Even the storm eventually
forgets your name.

But I remember falling.

Not once.
Not dramatically.
Just…
incrementally.

Falling into love that wasn’t ready.
Falling through logic
patched with performance.
Falling for eyes
that said everything
and meant none of it.

They say time flows
but I saw it bleeding,
dripping sideways
through the spine of a clock
that refused to chime.

We walked beaches
stitched together
from half-spoken apologies.
Moments, beautiful
but so easily rewound
by a sudden lack of reason.

And if I had a crystal ball…
would I use it
to avoid the pain,
or just to better frame it?

Would I steer my ship
to safer harbors,
or miss the waves
that taught me
how to drown gracefully?

My rainbow didn’t arc across joy.
It stained my palette
with residue.
Not color—echo.
Not hope—just remnants
of what was almost true.

Crows gather where clarity fails.
Gulls fight over the leftovers
of intention.
They don’t care what was meant—
only what was left behind.

Tomorrow came dressed
as an accident.
Today,
I misplaced again.
And yesterday
it whispered something
I wasn’t ready to hear.

Perhaps we should’ve arrived
with a manual for contradiction.
A diagram of desire.
An index of ambiguity,
where every should-have
had a page number,
but no resolution.

People say they love the rain.

They don’t.
They love the idea
that rain is forgiveness,
that wetness means freedom.

But step outside
and watch how they flinch.

They talk of dancing in storms
but build roofs out of denial.
They dream of thunder
but fear the lightning
that asks them
to be honest.

I drove through the last storm
and saw no dancers.
Just faces lit by phone screens,
cars speeding toward comfort,
no one tasting the grief
that falls for free.

And maybe,
maybe that’s the point

We’re all trying
to understand each other
through metaphors
no one agrees on.

We speak in rainbows,
but listen in grayscale.
We promise always,
then vanish between yesterdays.

And maybe that’s human.
Or maybe that’s just
what we became
when the gods
forgot to write us
an instruction manual.

Does it really matter in the end when the Rainbow Spilled Sideways