For that which I don’t know— built from
the bones of all the words I never spoke.
My life, if summarized, could be a quote:
a borrowed line, or a borrowed joke.
Either footnoted in memory, or discarded
as someone who misquoted hope
___________
Perhaps I’d trade in an error
for a single, shapeshifting era.
But funny how the past echoes loudest
in silence, and how legends live on not
in flesh, but in the offspring of their legacy.

Still— be careful not to jump to conclusions.
Don’t cut off your spring just because
you mistook the thaw for drowning.
And don’t become so quick to sip judgment
that you forget: a half-empty drink
can still quench the right thirst, depending
on who's pouring… and who's parched.
____________
Now there are those who offer their offending
speech like confetti; those whose presence is a
soft kind of peace; a balm, a breath, a quiet release.
Then there are others whose only offering is grief
once a week, wearing Sunday suits but speaking in leaks.

I have grown to value those who live
like arrows— honest, piercing, straightforward.
Not those who bend truth into shapes that fit
their spin, sending stories spinning on a tired wheel,
toward destinations they never meant to reach.
____________
Some speak on others' names with
the boldness of ownership, but it’s all
counterfeit— a forged will, a stamped conviction.

As for me? For that which I don’t know:
it remains a wonder, and I live in awe of it.
But as for some, with their tongue dipped
in certainty; your armour is made of knowing—
but you truly know nothing at all.

Turn off the lights — I’m fighting myself in the dark.
My skin, a caressing sun; roses fall and kiss me
with lip-shaped petals, trying to open me wide.
But they’ll censor you — they’ll look away, so you
don’t shine as bright as you are.

And me? I pluck myself from a group of self-doubts.
At the pace of this age, I slow, though youth fast-feeds
through my hands, trying to unearth green shoots
of heaven’s cheer. A chosen emotion rises — as if my
heart readies itself for a rapture. Earthen hands *****
out dreams from soil. To be called a ***** — or to *****
others? What a question to be.

As I’m plotting in the potting shed, where we shared
hope like dew-struck grass. We watered our dreams
with tears, and have felt baptized in fear. Shaking daily
at the grip of then —as if winter left its bare bones in my
hands. But I’m not ready to net a coy smile, not when my
butterfly net carries extra holes.

As all my hopes lie on the ground, seeds waiting to be
buried in the dark —waiting to grow. The lights of faith
are shut. And must I wait for fireworks to explode across
my sky again, like next year’s celebrations? But I won’t
shut my eyes this time. Yet I’ll stay open, just in case
tomorrow decides to find me first.

Dig into my chest like it’s bare soil—make it a grave, not for
mourning, but for planting. Let my heart be buried like a seed,
not as a casualty. **** out what once wrapped itself around
me like vines of bitterness, strangling my better nature. And if
love is to grow, let it bloom where my brokenness once lived.

To those who fall in love, only to fall harder out of it—do not
call yourselves foolish. Rising from that grave, petals torn but
still reaching for the sun, aren’t you the rose that dared the dirt?
Beautiful in defiance, bruised but not defeated.

Each morning, the sun rises like it’s trying to convince me it’s
worth beginning again. Beneath that light, my thoughts crash
like waves against the cliffs of a heart too mountainous to climb.
I keep counting stars like uncashed wishes, dreams I tuck into
the corners of silence. Love plays its hand close to the chest—
a secret it folds into itself, waiting to be revealed when the
moment is just right.

But I’ll never know enough. Maybe I wasn’t meant to. But I have
loved—truly, painfully, and almost beautifully. And that should
count for something, by the sum of this heart that still beats,
and still believes, but also still breaks.

So here I am, with these cards on the table. No bluff left in me.
Even a faithful lover would cry, 'God, are you listening; deal me
a better hand. Not one free of pain, but one I can hold with both
hands steady. One that doesn’t slip through the cracks I’ve tried
so hard to mend. But one I can grip with love, and not lose again.'

But oh, how you'll weep— not for what’s been lost,
but for what you're scared to lose.

There’s a hollow kind of happiness
caught in the curve of an imperfect smile—
where soft lies rest gently on the tip
of a weary tongue.

To be truly happy is to risk the world
watching, waiting for your fall—
constantly crumbling on your knees,
like a prayer too faithful not to be heard.

Vows taste bittersweet, like knowing,
deep and quiet, that you’ll fail before you begin.
And still—you hold the hurt in your hands,
the same hurt that shaped you,
while denying how deeply it still aches.

But pain denied
denies you healing.

As you are still searching for yourself—
like an arrow already loosed, still chasing
its aim long after the bow has let go.

And maybe you won't land where you
thought—but you’ll find something solid
beneath your feet. And not every wound closes
clean, but even scars can trace a path for you
to follow.

The brand of our skies lingers — soft kisses
drifting through the air, and I seem to lose every word
except for one whisper: “I love you.” As our love roars
like an anthem beneath a midnight sun, where my tears
have soaked the tired pillow of a heart that rests only
on the thought of you.

Each rhythm of speech stumbles into another pause
before a kiss, and like the taste of a wish granted, I find
my voice again, always to speak of you in reverent tones,
for you stand atop the mountain that houses my heart.

Your eyes; perhaps they’ve forgotten the worth of time.
There’s a watch not on your wrist, but bound to your leg,
always stepping over it.

And while the sun maps out your days, the moon is a pin
dropped at the final stop. Tomorrow isn’t promised —
no more than a compliment from a stranger. And just like
that stranger, it stays nameless until you dare ask its name
by dusk. Where the Sun Whispers, and the Moon Waits.

Fee-fi-fo-fum— as we weighed love by
an empty ounce, and paid it all back by this
sore pound. They yell: “come now or begone,”
and if you can’t produce the sum for what’s
been done; flee to fine some… or find none.

An anguish in fornication, and a touch that speaks,
but means nothing at all. No real stimulation—
just hunger in the guise of heat, and shame where
love was meant to meet. As some feather-dust their
guilt, pretending to have clean intentions. But we’ve
only used each other to air out our frustrations.

These old recycled themes; ******* from peers,
spilling from worn-out jeans, and spreading
dreams like genes, without real meaning in between
the fabric of time.

But tell me, do you still not see the giant problem?
Or are you too big for yourself, to fully measure up
to your own faults?

Glass tears dance on the lawn of dreams –
offered sweetness at hand; while the Beast
breathes fire over frost; black fur coiled in winter’s
chill, his warmth a lie dressed in comfort.

He offers blindness as a blessing, the bliss
of the thoughtless path. In the silence of white
winter, you take his claw, mistaking it for a hand.
“To die for”—a morbid metaphor— what is the gift
of a Beast meant for?

Around him, the dancing lich spins— leeches
birthed  from tombs of need. A cliff that clefts;
as a cleft lip cannot speak the truth, it only bleeds.
Closed eyes cannot paint the dark—
but they stay loyal  to its canvas.

Left bereft—travelers avoid certain subjects:
being sick of yourself, tasting your own *****.
But hush now— we’ll skip the topic. Change the
subject. And bury that scent.

As she was sent; and of all the objects she takes
from the Beast—he cures grief with a sugar-coated sting.
But bittersweet is still a shade of sweet, it rots your teeth,
and maybe he works with the tooth fairy to collect what
decay leaves behind.

But in the cold, no one heals— they run to the hills,
as their heels are clicking in panic of snow-bitten ground.
Perhaps this time, Little Red took the wrong road—
and the wolf she met, has grown hungrier from
feasting quietly on empty bones.

      ....there's no-one to save her at all.