In Highschool, I discovered poetry and its power. I don't enjoy rhyming, as this feels forced. Instead, I view poetry as stories written in a specific form. I used to have pages of poems that I carried everywhere, but, unfortunately, they're lost.
One poem, titled "Stars Burn" I remember my emotions but I can't remember the words. The rest, for whatever reason, I simply cant remember.
I hope that someday when I'm cleaning out boxes in random storage places, I'll re-discover them.
You smile for them. The mask holds. Your truth stays buried and so you continue. You walk past me, handing your insecurities to others like offerings, tried to climb through me, fed them lies like currency, made your moves in boardrooms and hallways, and still, nothing shifted. But behind closed…
You'll learn this. Not when I move—when you realize I haven't. The watching is the wound.…
Come to the altar, and be rejected, as a liar's facade never remains solid. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But if you get too close, beware, they are dancing with the devil in a ballroom of their own making. Die a liar. Be remembered as one.…
We build temples out of paychecks. Altars of leather seats and square footage. We hang diplomas like saints on the wall and call it arrival. The hungry years. The proving. The more, the almost, the finally. We gnaw the hours down to bone for things that will forget our names…
There is something that outlives the body. There is something that knows your voice before your name. There is something that forgives the wound before the apology. There is something that holds the silence when the room empties. There is something that buries its dead and sets the table anyway.…
Every room I enter, I am looking. Not scanning. Not browsing. Looking. The way the faithful look for signs. Years of faces. Years of almost. Years of wrong mouth, wrong laugh,wrong silence. Then you. Not lightning. Not revelation. Just recognition, like remembering a word I didn't know…
They chase power calling it purpose. As if the climb were the same as the cause. As if the throne would tell them who they were once they sat in it. But power doesn't answer questions. It only ends them. And purpose, real purpose, never needed a kingdom.…
No place to run, no place to hide, the footsteps echoing are your own, pressed into soil you thought you'd left behind, circling back to the unmarked stone. There is a vivid uncertainty in your actions, each gesture trailing smoke and question marks, your hands betraying what your…