Original Poetry
When the sky splits open and the heavens choose you as their target, It was me. When the wheels of fate roll through the puddles of your life, drenching you in puddles of misfortune, It was me. When you fumble for your keys, your wallet, your remote, and they vanish, making you doubt if they were ever real, Don't be fooled, It was me. Every rejection, every bitter dissapointment, every ounce of agony that will paint your future in shades of torment, It was me. That gnawing unease, that abyss of heartbreak, that soul-crushing disillusionment? IT WAS ME. I am the bird that laughs as it flies away. I am the driver, relentless. I am the ghost, lurking and waiting. I am the karmic force that drags you down, no matter how high you attempt to rise. I am the invisible strings pulling at your every decision, twisting your fate into knots you will never untangle. It is not bad luck. It is me.
she pleaded on her knees her knees buried in the sand the sand staring at the sun the sun reflects the ocean and notices the wind the wind blowing her hair back and wrinkling her dress her dress touching her smooth skin her smooth skin outlining her freckles her freckles all over her body her body bent over, with her hands clasped together beneath her beneath her the world stopped the world stopped so she could feel and it never happened again.
Grey mascara Crying under blue skies, blue skies It’s been a long time over here I’m afraid that I’m afraid, I fear Catch me drowning Blow some bubbles for air, for air Don’t you have any news for me? There’s always someplace I’d rather be Gray mascara Hidden under bright eyes For the longest time Choosing peace has never been easy Injustice isn’t always easy to decipher I’ve got nothing left except my own breath Help me, father, are you even up there? Just like religion my soul has left Butterflies can sting my eyes Not a moth to flame, light to lies Bullet points bullet wounds Driving in the dark, 20 over the limit
It was me
There’ll be liars and traitors and selfish deflators And riddles and rhymes There’ll puzzles and confusion, really, trying times Most are fakes and cowards to your dying hour Can’t even lie But you know what? That’s life. You’ll cough and cramp and close up and cheat, oh yes You’ll be tricked and taught and toasted and roasted It’s all a big joke You’ll find holes and hacks And be attacked and cracked So when I begin to cry, look up and curse the sky I wipe my tears and swallow my fears and climb back up those stairs! Cause that’s life! You can’t just wait around for change Cause that’s life! You’ll be betrayed and that’s okay Each lesson’s a story, an attest to your glory Don’t be bitter just keep getting better And you’ll pick yourself up and dust yourself off And that’s life!
Resentment. It’s a funny word, but a fitting one. It sounds like a transition where you’ve completely flipped something inside out! Resentment. Sent it through again and I meant it. True resentment is like revenge in that it is most effectively delivered cold. It is like watching a plant grow, oblivious to which species it will succumb to in the beginning. You believe you’re watching a flower bloom, only to find that when you turned your back to get a vase you’ve been harvesting a Venus fly trap all along. Resentment. Something you’ve loved transformed into intoxication and intolerance. Resentment. It’s a pattern that we have woven together all these years. Resentment. That we have learned and forged with our own hard work. You had such kind words in the beginning. You love bombed. You sweet talked. Resentment. You said it would always be us. Until you had the real thing. The real thing: the heart pumping, elusive, evasive, arousing emotion and all you ever really wanted. Resentment. My fake blood could no longer be a substitution to its deer meat. Every chase you lose me. Every time you make a sly comment that boosts yourself I’ll shiver and smile. Resentment. To give and resent is my natural cycle. To plead for change and then for forgiveness is a default. I’ve told you I’m an ember. I’ve told you the waves are too much.
You would think it would be more alarming When the leaves went from green to gone. You would think public outcry would erupt, When, instead of a foliage stretching country-wide, the branches are bare. You would think the common man Would remove his head from his computer When it’s eighty degrees in October. You would think the air tasting of ash, The oceans swelling beyond their shores, Would stir more than just headlines. You would think the bees’ absence from flowers And the silence of birdsong at dawn Might pull us from our blind routines. You would think before the glaciers melted, Before the fires consumed what’s left, We’d care enough to stop the clock. You would think even a teenager with their eyes glued down Could take a moment to look up and around You would think there would be a fuck to give for the sickness of the earth When we depend on its resources for life You would think it’s common sense that it’s strange, when the leaves just disappeared.
You try to describe it— but the words choke, knotted in your throat. There’s a clash inside, relentless, constant, surfacing each night when silence amplifies. No cure, no solution, only survival, a quiet ritual of telling yourself it’s not so bad, that you’re not sinking into stress like quicksand, not feverish from a sickness that burns through your mind, through your skin. You think of those who ended it, cut themselves free, and whisper to nobody, “I’d never go that far.” But you feel it growing, an infection with no shape, no end. So you die in pieces, slowly, painfully, yet somehow all at once— your heart goes first, turns to ash in your chest, your mind follows, igniting in a blaze, until all that remains is fragile debris, splintered glass scattered across a floor, left untouched, unseen, no one willing to gather the shards.
I thought it would end— this gnawing ache, this weight I carry, silent and steady— once I’d gathered everything I’d ever dreamed. I imagined that with the right friends, the ones who feel like home, who would laugh and stay and know me deeply, I’d feel whole, free from that emptiness. That if I shaped myself, sculpted my body into something I could admire, a picture-perfect frame of what I thought mattered, I’d finally feel content in my skin. If I balanced just enough schoolwork, piled on achievements, earned the flawless record that spoke for me, the ache would vanish. I wouldn’t feel the way I did back then. But it stays, quiet and sharp, a burn that sears from the inside, a reminder I can’t shake, even when I’m laughing, even when I’m safe. It’s strange, this ache— you tell yourself that you can fix it, that only you hold the key to making it stop. Yet even as life falls into place, as friendships grow roots, as comfort settles in, it doesn’t ease. It remains, buried deep beneath the calm surface, like a hollow waiting to be filled, a dark pit that swallows joy before you can savor it. No matter how secure you feel, it’s there, watching, whispering, a shadow that lingers even in light. And sometimes you wonder if it will always be this way— if you’re destined to carry it, this silent ache that threads through every moment, growing and shrinking with each success, unfazed by everything you gather, everything you become. You thought that by becoming enough you could patch over the void, make it disappear with the right pieces, the perfect life, the dream come true. But it waits, unyielding, as if reminding you it was here first, and it’s here to stay.
This road we call life stretches endlessly, winding and unyielding, and no matter the condition, we continue along its uncertain path. Sometimes, the tires give out beneath us, shredded by unseen obstacles, leaving us stranded, hands gritty with the effort of patching together the will to go on. Sometimes, the heat presses close, dense and inescapable, wringing us dry, leaving nothing but thirst and exhaustion in its wake. Other times, it’s the weight of the road itself— a hollowed stretch with horizons so distant they seem unreachable, and we find ourselves wondering: is there anything here, anything worth pursuing past this dust and distance? Yet, somehow, through the ruptures, the relentless heat, and that heavy, nagging sense of futility, we keep moving. We press forward not out of certainty, but because of a whisper that there may be something just beyond sight— a promise we cannot name, but that stirs somewhere deep within. The fruits of this journey are elusive, hidden, tucked away around bends we cannot predict, waiting in spaces we can’t yet comprehend. They arrive in moments almost imperceptible: a quiet laugh with someone who feels like home, the gentleness of a sunset after an unforgiving day, the unexpected softness of belonging or relief. And so, even when the road wears thin, when it narrows to an unsteady line with no end in sight, we walk on, held by a delicate thread of hope. It’s as if the road itself, indifferent yet familiar, knows the treasures it withholds, revealing them only to those who have worn themselves into its path, who have yielded, surrendered, and continued. This road is not made for comfort; it does not soften to fit us. It is a hard teacher, forging resilience from our trials, offering patience only by demand. And yet, through it all, we learn to find beauty not in the road’s mercy but in our own endurance, in the quiet courage of each step forward. Because no matter how barren the journey seems, no matter how often we wonder at its worth, this road gives, slowly and sparingly, its hard-won gifts to those who stay, the ones who understand that even the barest path has the power to carry them somewhere unseen.