​
I ponder all the paths I've crossed, the moments won, the moments lost,
Here I am, content, yet still, my mind returns to those what ifs,
What if
The heart I did not seek was waiting there with open arms,
Would I have known a deeper love, or drowned within its endless charms?
Could I have lived a softer life, where pain was but a fleeting trace,
And every tear was kissed away, before it marked my weary face?
What if
The road had turned to meet the dreams that vanished out of sight,
Would I have found another way, a different dawn, a different day.
Could I have walked a softer path, where thorns gave way to tender light,
And would the tears have fallen less, in softer pools, in softer nights?
What if
The words I did not speak had flown on winds to reach your ear,
Would you have stayed within my grasp, or faded like a whispered prayer?
Would we have danced beneath the moon, or stumbled in the tangled air,
Two hearts that never found their tune, yet lingered on in deep despair?
What if
the winds had changed their course, and led me down another path,
Would I have found a gentler stream, or faced the storm's unyielding wrath?
Could I have chased a fleeting dream, or caught the light of distant stars,
And found a world where hopes were new, untouched by time, untouched by scars?
What if
The choices that I made were cast aside, a fleeting thought,
Would I be here, in this embrace, or somewhere else, forever caught
Between the lives I did not live, the ones I lost, the ones I sought,
Or would I find another peace, in other arms, in another plot?
What if
My heart had dared to leap where caution told me not to go,
Would I have found a deeper cause, or plunged into a deeper woe?
The life I've lived, the life I lost, the life I’ll never come to know,
They haunt my dreams, they fill my days, with thoughts that dance in endless rows.
What if
My steps had faltered then, where caution held me back from flight,
Would I have found a gentler breeze, or fallen far from tender light?
The life I've lived, the life I lost, the life I'll never come to know,
They haunt my thoughts, they fill my dreams, with whispers soft, a ghostly show.
I ponder all the paths I've crossed, the moments won, the moments lost,
A lover's gaze, a distant star, a wish that hangs on trembling lips,
Though happiness surrounds me now, I can't escape the lure of this—
To wonder at the might-have-beens, the paths that forked right and left me here.
Here I am, content, yet still, my mind returns to those what ifs.
​
there’s something simple in my name, a modest curve, a quiet frame,
and yet, they lift it up too high, with every mark they try to claim,
as if a crown or title’s there, a weight my name was never meant to bear,
but i’m just me, and that’s enough, no need to raise it, smooth and fair.
so many others wear it bold, they press it firm in caps of gold,
but mine’s a whisper, soft and low, a gentle touch, not meant to show.
i don’t need grandeur, shining bright, or letters towering in the light,
just let it be, a simple line, lowercase, and purely mine.
it’s not a shout, it’s just a sound, a humble name that’s close to ground,
and when they raise it, loud and proud, it feels like thunder, far too loud.
but here it rests, in quiet grace, no need to make it take up space,
just let it be, just let it fall, my name is small, and that is all.
A movie falling a part in the third act,
A song that doesn’t resolve,
A love that has lost its spark,
A poem that doesn’t rhyme.
How could I begin to speak of you
when language itself falls short?
You are the infinite sun,
I, the earth, pale in your vastness.
I am the passing clouds,
you are the sky that holds them,
eternal and unchanging,
an expanse I will never fully comprehend.
If I were the wolf,
how would I howl to the moon,
not out of longing, but awe,
how would I explain the pull,
the instinctive gaze upward?
And if I were a worm,
how could I describe the apple
that cradles me, nourishes me,
the whole of which I never see?
How does the fish know the ocean?
Surrounded, suspended,
yet never fully grasping
the endlessness of what is around it,
the place it calls home.
So, too, I find myself
immersed in you,
in a depth of feeling
that words dare not tread.
If I had a million pencils
and a billion sheets of paper,
the earth would spin itself apart
before I could finish writing
even a fraction of what you mean to me.
Every letter falls short,
every word feels heavy
with the weight of what it cannot hold.
You are everything I am not,
everything I long to become.
The strength I admire,
the grace I seek,
the light I follow.
I’m left tongueless,
in silence, in reverence,
knowing that even in this quiet
there is a truth words cannot touch.
Not every story finds its end, not every song returns to peace,
Not every love can hold its spark, nor every moment find release.
Yet in these things that lose their way, we find a truth, however small:
That life itself is often flawed, unfinished, and makes fools of us all.
It’s fun to craft a poem, line by line,
To watch the words take shape, a gentle dance,
To feel the rhythm flow, a steady rhyme,
As thoughts transform into a fleeting trance.
It’s fun to write a song, a melody,
That lingers softly in the quiet air,
To sing it out, with joy and harmony,
And lose yourself within the music's care.
It’s fun to dance, to move with grace and ease,
To let the world just fade beneath your feet,
To kiss your love, and feel that gentle breeze,
As every moment makes your heart complete.
But what to do when joy begins to fade,
When words and songs no longer bring delight?
When every step feels like a fleeting shade,
And all that once was bright now fades to night?
I tuck my laces deep inside my shoes, away from sight and play,
For when they dangle loose and free, they bother me throughout the day.
I feel them touch the top of foot; they sway with every step,
So into shoes they go to hide; I like them snug and kept.
I never see if others tuck or let their laces loose.
I do it just for me, myself—my own small, discreet choice.
No strings to trip, no tangles near, just walking light and free;
I tuck them in not for the crowd, but simply just for me.
Her Her Her Her Her
Her Her Her Her Her Her Her
Her Her Her Her Her
A Morning light adorns the meadow in bloom,
Whispers dance through the branches of swaying trees,
Your visage takes shape amidst the roses’ plume,
A muse, whose mere nature inspires the breeze
Your presence, like the gentle springtime rain,
Doth nourish dreams and stir the restless heart.
Visionary, you weave a sweet refrain,
A work of art in which I play no part.
It calls to me like whispers in the night,
A measure that dances on the air.
Your spirit, soft as clouds in silver light,
Leaves echoes of a life I long to share.
But dare I leave the garden I have grown,
To chase a fleeting shadow in the night?
For fear the seeds of doubt that I have sown
May grow to choke this love with creeping blight.
What if our stars were never meant to blend,
A fleeting chance, a flower never picked?
Would risk of loss be worth the price to spend,
Or merely be a dream I could not predict?
So here I stay, beneath the willow's shade,
The echoes of a love I cannot claim,
For fear my heart, once given, might be frayed
By dreams that only live in passion's flame.
A love untouched, a longing all the same.
Better, perhaps, to keep this love in dreams,
Although my heart will whisper out your name,
Sometimes love is best in kept silent streams.
To cherish all the beauty left unsaid.
A tender hope that softly goes to bed.
Beneath the Moons expanse
the Wolf raises its voice in a trance
In the shadows it starts its croon
And sings a song to the distant moon
The Moon watches the Wolf howl
echoes ripple through the air
For what she knows not about
Her lunar silence shows she is unaware
fur touched by the whispers of pines
The Wolf howls as darkness twines
His spirit lingers in the rustling leaves
As the Wolf's laments- the night weaves
The moon, ancient, aloof,
Shadows with a wordless proof.
Unbothered by the wolf's heartfelt cry
She stands silent in the sky
She does not howl for the wolf to hear
The Wolf finds solace devoid of fear
A quiet night, under the moon's gleam
The Wolf howls alone locked in a dream
The Wolf harbors no disdain
The Moon free of blame
For in her silent grace
Lacks a voice to echo in space
The Wolf's gaze a tranquil knowing
No ill in the moon's silent showing
Nature's script a nuanced decree
The Wolf accepts under a moonlit tree
For in the night, a sacred pact
The Wolf and the Moon share this act
His howl a conversation one way
in silent intimacy they both sway
Behind my ear, A sudden pain, A trickle followed; Blood left a stain.
It seemed excessive, more than I'd have guessed, I thought it’d have the littlest
The back of my ear began to bleed, I wondered why it flowed so free,
So much blood from so small a place, a curious thing, a crimson sea.
Who knew my ears held such a tide, a torrent hidden deep inside?
A flood of red, a liquid wealth, more than their frame could seem to hide.
Why does it pool, why does it spill? Why must my ears have all this to provide?
My ears seem wasteful now, their needs outweighing all the rest.
Blood is sacred, an essential thing, a vital force in heart and chest.
If lungs had more of ear’s supply, perhaps I’d breathe and run for miles,
My chest would swell with power and life, each breath would come without denial.
But here it drains from useless lobes, a senseless use of nature’s trials.
Imagine if my hands could take their share, if blood from ears were sent their way,
To paint, to craft, to strum, to write, to touch the earth, to mold her clay.
Yet all that precious, flowing force remains locked up in ear’s embrace,
No veins to share, no arteries—just endless bleed in ear’s small space.
What use are ears to hoard so much? They take, they hold, they close their gates.
But if my brain could claim that blood, imagine what it might achieve—
A sharper wit, a clearer thought, more space for dreams that don’t deceive.
With blood enough to freely flow, my mind could grow, could reach new heights,
Could find new worlds in every thought, write songs that last beyond the nights.
How much is lost to ear’s excess when brains, deprived, must live in blights?
Why must I hear this world at all, with all its cries and all its pain?
The news that drowns in sorrow’s call, the steps of those who leave again.
Take blood from ears so I can’t hear, the distant sobs, the harsh refrain,
The whispered secrets in the dark, the broken hearts in love’s domain.
What good are ears in such a world, where sound is born of loss and strain?
But wait—I may have been too harsh, for ears have gifts I can’t deny.
To hear her sing my name aloud, her sweet soft breath, her gentle sigh.
The rustling leaves in autumn’s breeze, the brook that babbles to the trees,
The bird that calls from dawn’s first light, the cat that purrs with perfect ease,
The laughter of a friend so dear, the sounds that bring my soul to peace.
The brush that dances on the snare, the piano’s tune, each note so fair,
The hum of tapes that spin and wind, the secrets hidden in the air.
Now I see, let them keep their blood, they’ve earned the right, my ears are smart.
Ears, take the blood you need, dear organs, brain and lungs, you’ve done your part.
And if you still have need for more, then take it from the chambers of my heart.
On the third Thursday ever month the skies graciously show,
Books drift from above, like soft flakes in the snow.
At first, it was magic, a treasure to hold,
A banquet of knowledge, with stories untold.
But now it’s a burden, this flood of the pen,
Too many for one life, too vast for one man.
I find myself drowning, in this cascade of lore,
For the books keep on coming, and my shelves can’t store more.
I’ve built from the books a grand house to stay,
With walls of their wisdom, and floors where they lay.
The ceiling is covered with parchment and prose,
I’m thinking of adding a den, I suppose.
“Why not sell them?” you ask, “Turn these tomes into gold,
Buy a jet ski for joy, let your story unfold.”
But selling these books seems to me out of line,
I can’t sell them for their words are not mine.
Yet if you should want just a few, or much more
A book from the roof or a novel from the floor,
Please come and take them, no need to return,
For more will arrive, with each month’s gentle turn.
They’d be happier with you, where they’ll be well-read,
Than as walls in my foyer, their stories unsaid.
I know you will cherish each story and line,
For a book's worth is more when it’s loved and it’s thine.
So come, take what you need, let your shelves overflow,
They’ll be better with you than as my home, I know.
It’s my joy to provide them, a gift from the sky,
For books are best cherished, not left to just lie.
Is there sin in the heart that aches,
For the un-held, the unseen, the untrodden paths?
Desire, they say, is a flame that consumes,
But what if it merely warms,
A gentle flicker, not a raging blaze,
Filling the spaces between what is and what could be?
Just because I yearn for what lies beyond,
Does not mean I’ve forsaken what’s near,
Does not mean I’ve turned my back,
On the treasures cradled in my palms.
What is the nature of want,
But a pulse, proof of life’s endless dance?
To want is to live, to breathe,
To stretch towards the unknown, the untouched.
I do not seek to erase the past,
Nor to trample the present underfoot.
I hold my world close, with all its beauty and scars,
Yet my heart still calls for the distant, the forbidden
Can I be faulted for listening?
For hearing the screams of dreams half-formed?
To want is human, it is the pulse of existence,
It is not malice, but life itself.
Is there sin in the heart that aches,
For the unheld, the unseen, the untrodden paths?
Or am I simply alive,
Foolishly dreaming of what might be?
​
Through endless paths I've wandered lost, in search of joy, in search of light,
Yet Eros calls, with gentle hand, to build, to craft, to rise, to fight.
It whispers soft of life’s embrace, of every pulse and breath we take,
A force that drives us to create, to love, to heal, to never break.
But deep within, a shadow stirs, where Thanatos begins to creep,
A quiet voice that speaks of peace, found only in eternal sleep.
It feeds on doubt, it sows the seeds, of fear, of loss, of self-reproof,
It tells me that to fall is fate, that happiness is but a ruse.
Oh, how I struggle in between, the pull of life, the lure of death,
To grasp the fleeting joys of now, or yield to Thanatos’s breath.
What do I want? What do I need? A question that torments my soul,
Is happiness a distant dream, or something I can grasp, control?
In every act of self-destruction, Thanatos holds its icy grip,
It whispers lies of worthlessness, it tightens fast, it will not slip.
Yet still, Eros calls me forth, to live, to fight, to dare to grow,
To plant the seeds of hope and joy, and reap the love that I might sow.
But here I stand, torn in between, two forces that define my path,
To build a life, to tear it down, to drown in tears, to sing and laugh.
What do I want? What do I need? To find the peace that lies within,
To balance life and death’s embrace, and find the strength to start again.
went to my old church, with a burden to bear,
Hoping to find just a moment of prayer.
But the handle was stiff, and the sign I could see
Said the place for the lost wasn’t open for me.
A house meant for refuge, for sinners and lost,
Now shut by a lock and a chain at the cost.
How strange that the place meant for healing and prayer
Would turn folks away with a “Sorry, we’re square.”
So what of the sinner who stumbles at night?
What of the lost in their desperate flight?
I guess my misfortune just missed the right time,
My crisis didn’t fit in their evening’s chime.
Is this how it works, is the holy divine
Bound to a schedule, like yours and like mine?
For a moment I laughed at the irony bare,
That crises and faith should both need to compare.
I laughed at the thought—though the tears weren’t far—
How God’s open arms were now bound by a bar.
A house built for refuge, for healing the soul,
Now stands like a fortress with strict human control.
The doors are for business, and prayer has its shifts—
Come back in the morning for spiritual gifts.
But I wonder if Jesus, if He walked today,
Would He stand at this door and then turn away?
I thought of the times I’d once knelt on these floors,
Now barred by the sign and these heavy locked doors.
“Come back in the morning, we’ll welcome you then”—
But what of the night and the shadows it sends?
For God should not wait on a lock or a key,
Nor on hours marked out when the soul seeks to flee.
Yet here I am standing, in darkness, alone,
While the house of salvation feels colder than stone.
And so here I question, with heart left to dwell:
Must hope and despair fit a business day well?
For I cannot time when I need to confess,
Nor schedule a moment to pray in distress.
But there’s comfort, I’m told, just beyond these walls tight—
If only my crisis was not at night.
There’s a story I know, and it’s frightening and true—
if you say the name thrice… or was it just two?
Wait, it’s once in the mirror… no, maybe the dark,
and you chant it at midnight… down by the park.
It’s when lightning strikes twice that you hear the beast’s call—
no, it’s thunder that rumbles… or rain starts to fall?
And the name, did I say it was Sam, or was it…?
Oh, forget it—just trust me, it’s scary as shit.
Look, just get into bed and don’t ask anymore,
‘cause you’re too young to hear all the gruesome folklore.
But be warned… if you do hear a whisper or dread,
you’d best stay asleep and not climb out of bed!
I’m like a werewolf
But instead of turning into a wolf during a full moon
I just get really sad every night
My cousin said, “Watch, I can jump higher than you!”
I laughed, shook my head, said, “That’s just not true.”
So we climbed on the trampoline, bouncing with glee,
and he soared through the air, far too high for me.
With a leap and a bound, he shot up to the sky,
through the clouds, past the birds, till he waved me goodbye.
I waited and watched, but he never came down,
just left me alone on that soft, springy ground.
Now the trampoline sits, but I don’t like to play—
for it feels a bit empty since he flew away.
We inherit the earth like a seed in the soil,
the roots of the past, entwined in our toil.
From hands long departed, we gather and sow,
and carry their stories in all that we grow.
Growth is a struggle, a reaching for light,
a stretching of limbs in the quiet of night.
We bloom in our season, then drift with the breeze,
like leaves that let go, returning with ease.
And death waits, a circle that closes the line,
a harvest, a rest, a return to the vine.
What we leave behind, in earth and in breath,
is the seed, the beginning that follows our death.
I’m not good enough for anything; I know the story well,
I climb, I try, I lose my grip, then watch as others excel.
My goals stay far, like stars I chase, too distant to be real,
and happiness—a fleeting shade I only think I feel.
But still, what else is there to do but stumble through each day?
I’ll take another aimless step along this endless gray.
I don’t expect a breakthrough, don’t expect the hurt to cease—
but maybe if I keep on going, I’ll find some kind of peace.
Before there were barns, where did barn owls go rest?
Did they drift through the night with a thrum in their chest,
searching fields, forest hollows, each shadowed alcove,
wondering where they belonged as they floated above?
Did they circle the pines, did they settle on stone,
feeling empty, yet full of a need still unknown?
Were they haunted by thoughts of some place warm and dry,
a roof they could trust, where the wind wouldn’t pry?
Now they swoop through the rafters, through wood and through hay—
they’ve a shelter, a name, in the dusk’s silver gray.
And I, too, wonder what I might call my own,
somewhere built just for me, where I’d know I’d come home.​
Every beginning leans into an end,
a rhythm stitched in the marrow of time—
the rise of a sun, the soft fall of night,
each story a thread we know must unwind.
To live is to dance with the closing note,
to step with grace into endings we fear.
For the beauty, I think, is the letting go,
the breath of loss that makes each day dear.
Why, then, does it ache, the parting of hands,
the fade of a laughter, the hush of a room?
We know that each chapter will turn, must turn—
still, we linger in spaces that cradle the bloom.
But perhaps it’s in pause, in the slowing to leave,
we learn that in each goodbye, we leave a part of yesterday—
to let each ending rest, unhurried, undimmed,
and to rise, once more, to the light of what’s begun.
Why are all my poems about you?
I start with stars or storms,
and somehow, there you are—
woven in lines I never meant to write,
in metaphors that keep finding your face.
I tell myself to paint the sea,
to sculpt mountains from ink and air,
but then, there you are again,
the hidden heart of every line,
pulling words like tides, back to you.
Why are you the ghost in my hands?
Every brushstroke, every chord,
each quiet hour I give to silence,
you slip between the spaces,
a whisper I can’t unhear.
I try to carve you out,
to write around your shadow,
but all my work is haunted,
all my lines, all my songs—
you are the ink, the echo,
the pulse behind every beat.
So why are all my poems about you?
Perhaps I could stop, could let you go—
but then what would remain?