I live in a city where most streets house the homeless, and if you stand in one place long enough, you might overhear someone talking about their own life. This saddens me deeply and, in an odd way, is a pain I feel like I can relate to. To be surrounded by all of these people, yet still feel so alone. The irony of isolation is that we all feel isolated. If you're reading this, go talk to someone whose name you don't know. Why are you going to let your glass box control you?

I am twenty years old and just now discovering the wonders of feeling your emotions. There is quite a big difference between feeling them and thinking about them as far as I've come to find out.

This poem/sonnet is about the love and importance of roses, and how they're known as the ultimate symbolic motifs in famous fairy tales that we have heard, read and seen in various forms.

This poem is about my love and faith for Hindu Goddess Kali, who destroys all evil and vanquishes anyone, who causes harm upon others. This poem is dedicated tribute to the Goddess, who destroyed a most powerful evil demon Raktabheej, saving the world from plunging into a darkness filled with bloodlust and malice.

You ever just been forced? A force within yourself that’s inevitable.. that you are painfully aware of?

A poem I made after a very late, sleepless night. I was trying to portray yearning and desperation clashing between self-respect and care.

Yearning distilled would feel like the purest withdrawal from all that may soothe, yet we still yearn for want

This poem is written from the perspective of Jesus Christ. I wrote this during my junior year of college.

The natural elements carve you when you least expect it and you're never the same. You have to fight to keep your essence. The only wealth you have is your presence.

The natural elements carve you when you least expect it and you're never the same. You have to fight to keep your essence. The only wealth you have is your presence.

An exploration of loss as something orderly and powerful, and the quiet ache of wanting back what it has taken.

Come, step into the mind of a cosmic curiosity and witness the ramblings of a beautifully broken, cornucopia of chaos.

This piece was written as a way to give language to the internal damage addiction caused, damage that wasn’t always visible to others. Writing “Dear Addiction” allowed me to separate myself from the substance and confront it as something that invaded my life, altered my identity, and slowly erased parts of who I was. It reflects how addiction didn’t arrive violently or obviously, but quietly filled emotional gaps during moments of exhaustion, pain, and vulnerability. The letter exists to explain a kind of loss that isn’t acknowledged enough: the grief of surviving while no longer recognizing yourself. It captures the shame, dissociation, and self-erasure that addiction leaves behind, even after sobriety or survival. Ultimately, I wrote this to process that grief, to honor the version of myself that was lost, and to help others understand that “making it out alive” doesn’t mean escaping without lasting wounds.

Fight them off, girl Rambo. Writing to them is the same as conversation. It's not silent. Keep the BB gun loaded and ready to fire a round. Breaking and entering a new galactic year

Ordinary love is easy to miss. In a world that celebrates grand gestures and loud declarations, this piece honors the quiet, steady acts of care — the ones that ground us, reassure us, and make love feel safe.

The poetry of my mind that my mouth can't express. The reason of my well being. It is a story and autobiography.

Father Hurt Gone Passed away Feelings Life goes on Fuck this shit Abuse Pain Forgiveness Heartache

I needed to say this out loud, because silence kept protecting the wrong person. It takes someone deeply disconnected from themselves to lie without flinching, to manipulate love into a weapon, to spend years tearing someone down while watching them try harder. For three years, I gave everything I had—emotionally, mentally, spiritually, believing effort could fix what was never meant to be healthy. I kept showing up, even when I was shrinking. I kept forgiving, even when it cost me pieces of myself. I lost myself.

A poem on how looking in the mirror at myself has made me feel and slowly climbing out out that deep and dark viewpoint.

This first poem is called "Fractured Mirrors" in this poem I talk about what the mirror can not physically say, but we feel it what it says and it stings