I gave you the precious pieces of me,
The ones I didn’t want the world to see.
I trusted you to hold them carefully—
These intricate, delicate pieces of me.


Woven into the seams of my identity,
Each part is a fragment of who I could be.
But bit by bit, they slipped away,
Scattered in the echoes of yesterday.


Perception blurred, my world askew,
Identity fractured, unsure of what’s true.
Emotions unravelled, I fought to cope,
Cognition strained, yet clinging to hope.


Engagement faltered, connections grew thin,
Self-awareness whispered, “Rebuild within.”
So now I gather the pieces again,
Not broken, but patiently trying to mend.


Each one a lesson, a scar, a friend,
A story to tell, a truth to defend.
Delicate, intricate, essential to be—
Reclaiming the precious pieces of me.

You found me
in a broken state,

heartbroken,
building up my walls,

classic fight-or-flight,
trauma calling the shots.

I gave up wanting more,
but you came at the right time—

not to save me from myself,
but to show me how to live,
let go,

and let bygones
be bygones.

I couldn’t believe
that someone

would give me
a chance,

but you never
gave up on me,

even when I was
falling through
the cracks.

You showed me what
true love should be,

and I’m never going back.

Do you ever feel like your story is being written for you?
Maybe that’s why I write—
because when I look down, at least I know it’s mine.

How did I get so lost,
so far from what was once so bright?

Page after page keeps turning,
but my pen ran out of ink long ago.
Time keeps passing,
but the story unfolding isn’t me.

Maybe my story was never mine.
Maybe it belongs to someone else.
Maybe I’m just a book collecting dust
on a stranger’s shelf.

Maybe that’s why I write—
so that somewhere, buried in those pages,
there is at least one part
that is undeniably mine.

If I take off all my clothes,
what will be left of me?
The uncovered body.
As it came into this world,
free of any tight silks.

What would be left of me
if I shed the layers that cover my soul?
Those that keep me in the dark,
blurring my vision of myself!

What would be left of me
without those non-existent ideas imposed on me
when I came into this world?

I need you to help me
answer the questions.

I need you to help me
take off my masks.

I need to see
the roles I am playing.

I need to hear
the lies I’ve been believing.

I need to feel
what I’ve been avoiding.

I need you to help me
become
who I am meant to be.

Please,
tell me the story
I’ve been telling myself.

Please,
my higher self,

show me where
I am hurting myself.

Show me where
I am neglecting myself.

Please,
my higher self,
speak to me.

Tell me with love.
Tell me with kindness.

change is the only constant
but being is open-hearted
& loving more.

i don’t want to be so
drunk
that i wake up in gun hill road.
home on new year’s day. 7 am.

for me, you can always reclaim a
sense of sanity
even in a time of chaos.

there are many things that
one
cannot reclaim.

why should i try?
if those things are gone…

did i need them in the
1st place?

self-worth comes back.
things get stolen.
for something
new.

non-reacting
presenting an acting exercise

— it’s windy outside.

non-reactors finding.
searching.
stillness in the storm.

the great thing about Bic-Round Stic M is that the ink doesn't bleed through the paper.

singing all day - will the willing to write songs and produce a great debut album.

where do i stand? anywhere—

where are you?

babe…

why must you ask such trivial questions?

then again, i grapple with an external validation problem,

curbed by a body—my own diary.

andy denson's diaries, tales—sweet.

thoughts flutter like moths to a flame,

yearning for the light of recognition,

yet finding solace in the shadows.

the pages absorb my musings,

ink drying without a trace.