When I was young, someday was forever —
a tunnel so long I couldn’t see the light,
let alone the end.

As I grew older, it became a memory: someday,
someday I would, if I could.
A fading echo as I began to live, to love —
then loss came, and someday became a dream.

Like the shadow of a mountain, someday
was etched behind my eyes.
There was a plan, an idea, a hope:
someday I would, if I could.

These days, someday feels so far from me —
like the memory of a crisp apple on the tongue:
its sweetness burned in,
but hard to speak aloud.

Someday — would I? Could I?
What does the future hold?
Will I ever find that someday?

Or — more deeply —
is this my new someday?
An image I could never have imagined
without the life, the love, the loss?

What is someday?
A dream,
a regret,
an illusion —
or a seed, still buried,
waiting to bloom?

A Hole in My Heart
for the one who breathes and hopes

There’s a hole in my heart, black as night,
A silent void where warmth once lived.
It echoes with the chill of absence,
A hollow that no light forgives.

I read of love in gilded pages,
Of fire, of longing, of sweet delight.
But the spark eludes my weathered soul,
A candle lost to endless night.

I watch them laugh, I hear them flirt,
Their hearts in bloom, their glances dance.
And mine—so quiet, so unsure—
Feels left outside the world of chance.

For I have loved, and I have shattered,
Been burnt, been bruised, been torn apart.
But still I rise, a scarred survivor,
Still breathing with a hopeful heart.

Dum spiro, spero—so I whisper,
A sacred phrase, my soul’s refrain.
Though decades carve their lines upon me,
That thread of hope has not grown vain.

Yet still the hollow aches and deepens,
A yearning vast, a haunting call—
To feel again that molten fever,
To stand, to leap, to risk it all.

But maybe love returns in silence,
In steady eyes and quiet flame—
Not wild as once, but ever truer,
Not seeking glory, but a name.

So I will wait, and I will wonder,
And tend the fire with gentle art.
For while I breathe, I do not falter—
Though there’s a hole, there beats a heart.

Life is pain.
That’s what they say.
Pain—
physical, emotional, mental—
it touches everyone.
So mine is not unique,
I would say.
Pain is life.
Life is pain.

But endless pain—
that is a different animal.
It never stops.
It slinks beside you,
sleeps in your bones,
a feral thing
slithering through your soul,
feeding on your light.

It steals.
Dreams.
Desires.
Hope.
You begin to speak
of the Time Before Pain
like a lost country—
a utopia
you once called home.

Now the present is war.
Every day a siege,
every hour
a whisper of resistance:
beat it
conquer it
survive it.

This pain lives off you.
It eats your basics,
hollows your core.
You stop wanting love.
You stop wanting wealth.
You want one thing only:
the cessation of pain.

And the future?
A fog, a flicker—
maybe there,
a life beyond this.
But now—
now, pain fills you,
poisoning your soul
against the fragile thread of hope.

It fills you
with anger,
with emptiness,
with a raw and aching need—
the need
for someone
to see you.

To see beyond
the red, raging storm,
past the mask,
into the trembling self
still curled
in the heart of it all—
and simply
see
you.