The essence of life
Is not the grand, shining prize—
Not the towers we build,
Not the praise, not the size.

It is not in the gold
That I chased in my youth,
But in hard-spoken love,
And in stubborn old truth.

It’s not in the noise
Of applause or acclaim,
But in calling your child
By their little pet name.

It lives in the touch
Of a calloused old hand,
In the strength to let go,
In the grace to withstand.

I once thought it lived
In the sharp edge of pride,
But it is more in the nights
When someone stayed by your side.

It’s in nursing a wound
That no one can see,
In forgiving yourself
Before your soul goes to sleep.

It’s in coffee gone cold
In a hospital bed,
In the things that you meant
But never quite said.

It’s in songs half-remembered
And quiet shared meals,
In the hush of a prayer
When you don’t know what heals.

It’s the smile you give,
Not the ones you take;
The truth you speak
For compassion’s sake.
Not the lies you guard,
Or the words you bend—
But the honesty shared
That helps someone mend.

The essence of life
Isn’t found in control,
But in losing your way
And still loving it whole.

It’s the friend who returns
Though you pushed them away,
It’s the smile from a stranger
That carries your day.

It’s in holding your breath
As the sunset turns gold,
And the ache in your chest
When you’re finally old.

It’s the stories I tell
Though my voice may grow thin,
And the silence that waits
For the next breath to begin.

So if you're still young,
Don’t rush through the race.
Let the moment unfold—
Feel the sun on your face.

Because life, my dear child,
Isn’t just to survive.
It’s the love that we leave—
That’s the essence of life.

I know why cats eyes sob
The contentment contained in a purr
What to do with a fallen star

What it is to be captivated
Why icebergs drown
Why we should walk
                                      In our own shoes

That mortality's a phase
              Experience my greatest teacher

That want and require aren't the same
                                         But both inspire

My worst enemy's kept in
A mirror the time taken
For a sparrow to exhale

How nothingness conceals all
                The clarity of silence

That life unfolds
As we choose
Based on experience
Of how we expect
                                           Unless it doesn’t
              Because you can’t live it that way

I look in the mirror and see someone softer—
Not weaker,
But worn in a way love tends to leave behind.

There was a time I loved blindly,
Loudly,
Without asking if the ground could hold me.
I called it strength,
But it was fear
Wearing confidence like perfume.

Now, I measure my footsteps.
I pause before giving too much.
I speak, not to be heard—
But to be honest.

You wouldn’t recognize the way I love now.
Not because it’s gone,
But because it’s grown quiet,
Rooted deeper,
No longer searching for permission to bloom.

I am still learning.
Still unlearning.
Still loving.

But I am not the same.
And maybe—
That’s what healing really is.

There was something
About your mascara
         When it rained
    When it smudged

But before it ran
The liner in the corner of each eye
                                Angled Easterly
                        Aligned with Horus
Now the prism
Within each iris within each eye
Within your photograph
Creates a mirage
                 That your still here
There was something
                 About your
                 Mascara

I yearn for the freedom of a bird, soaring high above the mundane,
Yearning to break free from the constraints of the grounded world.
When did the spark of imagination flicker and die?
Leaving behind a monotonous existence?

I long for the carefree days of carnival rides and cotton candy,
The thrill of the wind stealing my breath as the roller coaster swoops down the track.
I remember the awe-inspiring spectacle of fireworks,
Not the passive indifference that once filled me,
But the vibrant colors that danced in the sky,
Not muted and mildly annoying.

I crave the excitement of skipping school,
Feeling the rebellious spirit coursing through my veins as I run up and down the halls,
Instead of the tiptoeing and begging that now characterize my days.
I yearn to experience the fluttering of butterflies,
The nervousness of a first kiss,
And the pit of my throat clenching with the fear of asking a crush out.

Where did that innocent anxiety disappear?
When did imagination succumb to monotony?

I miss the simple, crude drawings I used to create world-building,
The comics of my own design and mind,
Characters rich with backstories and lives of their own.
Now, I struggle to put pen to paper,
I wonder if my words ever truly resonate.

Do they understand me?
Was I ever truly understood?
How I wish I could start over, grow in a way that doesn’t **** my garden,
But there’s no rewind.
I could wish on every four-leaf clover, but that’s not enough.

As I watch them fly overhead,
I can’t help but feel a sense of envy and longing.
I yearn to be them, carefree and clinging to the freedom that seems to elude me.
The air rustling through their feathers,
Taking me away into the ether is a tantalizing reminder of what I could’ve had.

As cast into light,
a shadow appears–
a quiet figure, stitched our heels,
moving as we move,
never speaking,
never sleeping.

It doesn’t beg to be seen–
yet it is always there.

It holds what we bury–
fear, denial, and grief;
the voices of fallacy,
the weight of dreams deferred.
In its void,
It collects the pieces
of what we choose to ignore.
The past echoes there.
The burden breathes there.
The purpose waits there.
Still.
Watching.
Black, like every other.

Peace, legacy, desire, love,
life, time, power, freedom–
the purpose we carry,
even in the dark.

Some move through life unaware of its presence.
At times, the shadow devours us as it follows,
becoming the void itself,
the same void we long to escape.

Like the birds that flow within the sky.
Like the wind that goes where it must.
Like art that forgets its maker.
Like the planets, moving by their own will.
Like a name, whispered into time itself.
Like any form it follows, stone, trees, dust.

It does not leave us,
It becomes whole.

N▇▇▇▇,
since we last talked, i wanted to tell you what you missed.

• truthfully, i wish you had been there when i was ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇.

• i thought you would have wanted to know that ▇▇▇ to ▇▇▇▇▇ again.

• also i found out that ▇▇▇▇ is
▇▇▇▇▇ than i ever realized.

• do you still ▇▇▇▇▇▇ ?
do you think ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ?

• i wonder, did you ever ▇▇▇▇▇ what ▇▇▇▇ ? did ▇▇▇▇▇ it? you must have, otherwise, you ▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇ stayed.

• anyways, you also missed just how ▇▇▇
and ▇▇▇ i have ▇▇▇▇ the ▇▇.



and most of all, ▇▇▇ you ▇▇▇ don't truly ▇▇▇▇ deserve ▇▇ to ▇▇▇ know, ▇▇▇
not anymore. ▇▇▇

                                                     --M▇▇▇▇