I lost my safety net
the day she left this world.
The one who caught me
when I slipped,
when I stumbled,
when I fell too far.

I lost my guard rail
the day my mother died.
The one who kept me
from flying off the road,
from crashing into the dark,
from losing my way.

Now
I’m stuck.
Stuck in a rut.
No hand to catch me.
No arm to steer me right.

And maybe
maybe that’s grace.
Maybe that’s mercy.
Because at least I’m stuck…
and not
drifting
away.

I see you there,
hiding from the light.
Come, sit with me.
Let’s share this good night.

The glimmering stars
shine so bright.
Look up with me.
Let’s share this good night.

See the moon flicker
as it rises to its height.
Stay here with me.
Let’s share this good night.

Now the night has passed,
Soon the sun will rise bright.
Thank you for being here.
For sharing this good night.

Hiding my sorrow,
no one sees me there.
No one will notice—
I’ll hide my tears in my hair.

I watch and I wonder
if anyone cares.
No one will notice—
I’ll hide my face with my hair.

The world feels so empty,
and I’m lost in the air.
No one will notice—
but maybe… someone might care.

We are born with kindness in our hearts,
a quiet urge to give, to share—
but giving all would leave me bare,
standing where the weary start.

So many turn their heads away,
passing by with lowered eyes,
ashamed of what they can’t erase,
of empty hands and silent sighs.

Some pockets hold only dust and air,
while mine hold coins, a privilege earned.
I ate with ease before I shopped,
no fear my fortune might be turned.

I do not judge, I do not scorn,
but pity lingers in my chest.
Their path is one I’ve never walked,
yet sorrow whispers, manifest.

If I had wealth, would I bestow
or clutch it close in quiet dread?
It’s hard to know until you’re there—
just like the ones who beg for bread.

I love Sundays—
waking slow, stretching wide,
one last day to savor,
wrapped in the warmth of morning light.

But then it creeps in—
laundry piles, grocery lists,
gas tank half-empty,
a whisper of duty pulling me forward.
I hate Sundays.

Tasks complete, I stand outside,
admiring the work, the order,
knowing the week will not demand
more than I have already given.
I love Sundays.

Yet as the sun sinks low,
so does my heart—
the weight of the week ahead,
the early alarm, the Monday grind.
I hate Sundays.

But imagine if Monday was ours to keep,
a four-day week, the American dream.
More time to breathe, to rest, to live—
now that’s a Sunday I could always love.

You asked me—
Where do your words come from?

My heart.
My brain.
My mouth.
They move together—
like rhythm, like breath.
When I speak,
I don’t plan the stories…
They just
come
out.

From the memories—
The ones I carry,
the ones that carried me.

To those who built them with me,
walked beside me,
loved me—
then pushed me
out.

You’re still there.
In the stories I tell.
In the moments that rise up
like waves I thought had passed.

Friends—
They’ve given me the words,
the courage to speak
without the shadow of doubt.

Spirit talks—
In the echo of every footstep taken,
in the silence between
laughter and tears.

That’s life.
Right?
That’s what it’s all about.

We all feel the same things—
joy, heartbreak,
the ache that sits just under the surface.
But we hide it.
We hold it down.
And doubt?
It doesn’t walk alone.
It comes
with company.

So let’s talk.
Let’s remember—
what made us happy.
What made us cry.
What made us doubt everything
we once believed in.

These are our building blocks—
of motion,
of emotion,
of memory.

This…
this is the story.
This is what life is all about.