Some things leave with a bang. Others simply disappear when you aren’t paying attention. A phone number. A friend. A little hearing. A little certainty. A version of yourself. You rarely recognize the last time as the last time. Mostly, you remember having something. Mostly.
Posts tagged Poetry
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Single-Player Only
I wrestle daily with loneliness, meaning, and the realization that existence often feels like a single-player game. Let’s explore trauma, numbness, and the quiet question that appears when the world stops making promises. Ready player 1?
Electric Paperc/ts |
AI & Writing Anxiety in Rhyme
I don’t think AI is killing writing, but I do think it’s wounding our pride. The reaction fascinates me: equal parts awe, insecurity, and prophecy. This poem lives in that tension — between tool and identity, speed and meaning.
Where Is I? |
A Return of the First Person
Some memories feel third person, like the memories of childhood trauma. Like the body was there but the narrator stepped out of the room. This poem moves through the strange, disjointed grammar of survival, where identity thins, fragments, and slowly rebuilds back into a voice strong enough to stand inside its own sentence.
A Polar Sphere of Influence |
A Snowball's Chance
There’s a poem waiting in the hush of winter air. Snowflakes commiserate, small hands shape them into frozen orbs, forts rise, and tiny acts of rebellion arc through cold skies. Mischievous and soft as snowfall—this is a lyrical song of winter, of snowballs, of laughter pressed into crystalline, fleeting mischief.
There Was Cake |
A Stranger's Birthday
A photograph insists I was there, but memory has other ideas. A boy at a birthday table, candles, sisters close by. The room is familiar and strange, light stuck in its own insistence. Time slips, identity wavers, and the past just won’t let go.
Surviving the Empty
I learned early how to survive absence, how to leave without drama. Quiet, deliberate, and alone, I mastered the art of withdrawing. Rooms emptied. Voices faded. Doors closed. This is a reflection on solitude, early lessons in leaving, and the quiet skill of surviving the empty spaces life leaves behind.
Survivor’s Guilt Trip |
Ungratitude & Stolen Valor
About 4 years ago, I survived two strokes. But I’m fine—on the outside. Sometimes this survival feels like a burden, a quiet accusation whispered over years, trauma tinnitus. This poem explores what it’s like to live after trauma that leaves no marks, my resistance to gratitude, and the ungrieved self I lost along the way.
Six Strings, Borrowed Air |
Where Sound Becomes Movement
Six strings, borrowed air, and a body that remembers before the mind does. This poem explores how sound turns into movement, how resistance generates music, and how meaning is experienced—quietly, physically, and beyond language or technique.
The Cat—Who Was and Wasn’t—In the Hat |
Or: Why Can't Reality Just Behave Already?
Quantum physics is strange, slippery, and famously unintuitive. I wondered how Dr. Seuss would explain it. Let’s explore particles, waves, and Schrödinger’s cat through memorable rhyme and playful whimsy, so see if we can explain why reality refuses to behave itself.