“I write poems of the past; they reveal the reasons we didn’t last.”

I still have a scar from the time someone said, ‘Sometimes love isn’t enough.’

I don’t think anyone really gets my attachment to the little things. They call it insignificant and say that it is what it is. I think it all adds up to what we stand for. The little things add up to something meaningful and so does the complacency.

I bear the fruits of your memory in the expression of my art for that is what you gave to the world.

Body and mind aren’t separated. And so all these things I write, they are felt in the aches of my heart.

I grew up learning history about communities that would support their people (the idea that it takes a village), but all I see are so many people left on their own.

When the silence fades and now sounds begin to bloom, I will grow to feel calm again. Healthily this time.

My words decay. I grow as they fray, unbecoming in the passage of time.

I overwhelmingly write from sadness – in songs, in prose, in verse.

I search for comedy scripts / I watch happy shows / In hopes that laughter will be the remedy I end my day with.

I hide myself in the galaxies of my creations – unsure of who I am beyond that.

I wonder why I’m so empathetic, why people perceive me to be so kind. I don’t want my heart to burn when there’s no one burning mine.

We walk in circles, never knowing when to end the cycle our hearts put us in.

Somewhere the silence resonates, the clutter clears, and you’re set to start again.

And so, my ‘What if’s’ became ‘What’s next?’

Why is it that you have more practice describing weaknesses than strengths? It’s not your fault they never went to the lengths to teach you how to value your strengths.

It felt vulnerable to have people know my weaknesses, but there is so much strength from going back to the start and re-determining who you are.