Poetry

[Trigger Warning] This poem contains metaphoric descriptions of sexual violence and may be distressing for some individuals. They told the garden child her blooms were all she’d need: no rain, just shallow soil, and sun to bask the seed. “Too pretty to fail,” they hummed with hollow praise, brushing trembling petals through a shadowed maze. She thought the sun was always kind and warm, that every touch was meant to soothe, not harm. She never knew how gentle light can burn, o

A pencil portrait of a close friend and former neighbor. Her warm smile and bright eyes always had a kindness and humor to them, and I wanted to capture that feeling in graphite.

Moments slip like grain through grasping hands. Dreams drift like mist under waking skies. Reach now — before dawn forgets your name. I wrote this poem as a reminder to myself that time is fleeting. Moments and dreams can slip away if we wait too long, so it’s important to pursue what we want now, before the chance passes.

This world’s not built for us, chaos in motion, Too loud for their rules, too wild for devotion. Told us to shrink, fold wings in their hands, But we rise, we riot, rewrite all their plans. Lips sing spells — birth life or deny it, Sacred breath, no dollar can buy it. We move like oceans, crash, then calm, Holy in the hustle, thunder in the psalm. Too soft, too loud, too much? That’s thrive. Soft is my love, loud keeps me alive. They said sit still—nah, I sway to survive, I’m

Alice was a quiet thing, she moved by every “yes, my dear,” by smiles rehearsed, by laughter’s sting, her voice a wisp no one could hear. Her shadow clung to wall and floor, each step measured, soft, confined; she learned the rules, she learned the chore, yet never learned to know her mind. The clock above her tick-ticked time, its voice a rigid, ruling chain: “Don’t chase that White Rabbit’s wicked chime — his path is sharp, his world insane.” She saw the flash of white and

This world’s not built for us, chaos in motion, Too loud for their rules, too wild for devotion. Told us to shrink, fold wings in their hands, But we rise, we riot, rewrite all their plans. Lips sing spells — birth life or deny it, Sacred breath, no dollar can buy it. We move like oceans, crash, then calm, Holy in the hustle, thunder in the psalm. Too soft, too loud, too much? That’s thrive. Soft is my love, loud keeps me alive. They said sit still—nah, I sway to survive, I’m

O brother mine, with dreams so vast, thou wish’st thy ambitions true; imploring lady luck to paint thy fancied visions into view. Thou speak'st of kingdoms yet unborn, of futures rich and fine, yet ever doth thy chosen road through fields of omens wind. Where cautious souls would halt and turn at banners dyed in red, thou marchest forth with eager smile where wiser minds have fled. The blind man knoweth not the hue of lantern or of flame— thus mercy often leads his steps, for

O brother mine, with vows so fair, thou speakest with honeyed grace, yet hours pass, and shadows stretch, and still thou dost not show thy face. Thy pledges, like the morning mist, do vanish with the day, and I, with hope still clinging close, am cast once more away. "Anon!" thou speaketh, bold and sure, “Fear not, for I am near!" but naught arrives save silence, cold, and echoes none can hear. Dost thou not see the pain thou cause’st, each time thy word doth fail? each jest

The soil makes no demands upon the seed, it does not dictate what the seed must breed. It simply holds, and feeds, and lets it go, to find the light it needs to grow. In one quiet corner, a vibrant blend resides, where pink Foxgloves stand along the mountain sides. Their bells softly bob above Violets cradled deep, while blue Lupines sway above where hidden creatures sleep. Three distinct shades, yet woven in one vine, a proud, bisexual tapestry by design. Beside them, patien

The following poems involve self-harm and suicidal ideation. Some readers may find this triggering. Please read with caution. Pain Falling down a deep dark hole, pitch black soup in a rotting bowl. Fingers twitch in reddish mud, dead roses and whithered buds. Spiders crawling up your spine, webs that stick and pull and twine. Needles stuck in red-blue veins, nothing here can stop the pain. Eyes that hide the years and tears, hidden between the lines — my fears. I write both d