there was a time you were my best friend. you sat for hours reading me bedtime stories. you played dolls with me. i thought that was forever. i thought that was love. but now you’re here and not here. alive, breathing, but gone. and it hurts in a way i can’t explain. not a burn. not a sting. it’s rot. it’s emptiness. it’s you looking at me like i’m too much. every fight ends the same. me feeling worthless. me drowning in guilt. you yelling that i cry for no reason. but god i wish you would just hold me. just once. instead of tearing me apart for feeling at all. i watch you love them. the little ones. you comfort them. you protect them. and i’m just— the oldest. the forgotten. the one who’s supposed to be strong. so i swallow pills. i hold glass until my hands shake. i carve red lines into my skin because at least the blood listens. at least the blood proves i exist. because you don’t see me. you never see me. i tell myself i don’t need you. but already gone.

The Poison You Left in Me You made me, then made me wish I wasn’t. You call me broken, but it was your hands that snapped me. You call me loud, but it was your silence that strangled me. I’m not your burden— I’m your reflection, the monster you built, the shadow of your cruelty. Every scar on me carries your name, not written in ink but seared in fire. You didn’t raise me— you caged me. You gave me breath only to watch me choke on it. I don’t hate myself, I hate the echo of you inside me, a venom that pulses through my veins every time I hear your voice. You call me lost, but you’re the map I’m running from, a compass that only points to pain. And if I am ruined, if I am reckless, if I am everything you spit at me— it’s because you carved those words into my skin long before I could speak. Mother, you are not the reason I live. You are the reason I dream of leaving

I do feel as though sometimes we need confirmation on things, in various ways. Maybe whether that's through love, faith, etc. This poem is entitled "Confirmation 1"

This poem is about love I wrote it in an attempt to be emotional available. I write about love often but I lost over mistakes I made so I write these to her.

This poem is about the attitude I have encountered in art spaces on X. It’s depiction of art culture and a guide to being unforgettable.

A love shaped by pain, drawn to darkness as if it were familiar—where trauma whispers and hearts chase what hurts

This poem contains content that may be difficult to read, as it explores themes of self-harm. It is written with a deep understanding and is intended for those who have walked a similar path. Please know that your journey is seen and you are not alone; healing is possible, and there is hope for a brighter future.

"Dumbfounded by the absolution of a repetitive destruction of all that I contact. Far from the midas touch with no gold for me, instead I'm left with ashes and a wish. Regret formed behind a mask of past mistakes, generational poverty and curses which are rarely escaped. So there I lay, homeless and full of self hate while drowning in its waste. I know the way to freedom but the drugs won't let me when the high make all the exits seem fake"

Was it any given day that made a sermon turn to each kindred soul and speak? It can be that dawn cracks the ages. On occasion, and at most, dawn is plain and dawn completes a new day. To hell, the nay sayers say. But who spawned first, the drug or the addict?

When you dig deep like struggle or keep with self as close as a teat is to a newborn’s tongue, there will be no air left to breathe.

It’s on the quiet nights where I lay in bed alone that I notice just how petrifyingly alone I feel. Where I’m alone with my thoughts. Where I can hear everything, yet I hear nothing but the raging sound of my thoughts, screaming whispers into the night.

Being a storyteller myself, I transitioned my passion of novel writing and headed on full force into the world of filmmaking. I had spent hours making weird films - a lot of them just me, myself, and I in my bedroom arguing to no one. The first short I made was an experimental one. I was testing out the free-to-use editing software that came on my laptop at the time and created a series of filtered clips with a pseudo story about attempting to escape the "editing room." That film is lost to time. The next couple I made were trailers. One was for a superhero movie, in which the hero in question only believes he has superpowers, another was about a burger restaurant with haunted kids' toys (in the same vein as the Five Nights at Freddy's franchise), and the final one was centered around my grandmother's dog being a spy who protected her family. The only one that actually survived being transferred from my old laptop was the one with my grandmother's dog.

Some days, the cracks show just beneath the surface. Behind smiles and steady hands, a fading soul quietly slips away. This is a journey through silence, shadows, and the fragile space between pretending and breaking.

I’ve been breaking in silence for years. Now, with a life growing inside me, I’m holding on—just long enough to give him the light I never had.

She doesn’t rest when the sun shines, and the days don’t count her out. One day, one evening, on no particular month, as she was parking her car..she saw a son in the night sky.

As the city hums with neon life, three bold figures stride forth, their vibrant hair and intricate tattoos glowing under the lights. The Flatiron Building looms like a sentinel, casting a surreal glow that pulses with their fearless energy, pulling me into a world where strength and beauty reign supreme.

To wonder in the fields, because trying again feels like we might make it this time. And quite there is no destination, however. And yet there are sown touching wonderment in all pathways.

Written while in a very dark mindset, not for the faint of heart, potentially triggering content, tread carefully

With Apologies to Edgar Allen Poe, Warner Brothers and Mel Blanc I present: The Rooster On a wint'ry weekend morning, heeding my alarm clock's warning, And as my feet reluctantly approached the chilly bedroom floor- All at once there came a ticking, as if boogers one were flicking, Wooden boogers gently clicking, clicking at my chamber door. "Just the cats" I mumbled, "with their claws upon the hardwood door. Just the cats and nothing more."

The poem explores deep, quiet despair and the wish to fade away without attention. It reflects feelings of isolation and hopelessness, where comfort feels distant and unseen, and the speaker just wants peace on their own terms.