When I was eight years old, I asked myself what was wrong with me

And I repeated that question so often that I carried it to sixteen

I carried it when I was fourteen

And cried myself to sleep for a week

Because I knew that I had to wake up

And work in the morning

That work did not stop

I carried that when I was twelve

When I heard the word “relax” so often I started to wonder if it was my name

And why no one said my name that softly

When I was fifteen, I sat in my room for hours

And watched the hours crawl by on an alarm clock

I remember wondering if I would have to do anything if I stepped out of that room

So I didn’t get out of my chair

And my hands carry the scars to prove it

When I was fourteen, I fell so hard in love that I can’t remember what I did

I don’t remember my workloads or my stress

If I want to know what final I had for freshman year, I’d need to look back at my homework folders

Because at fourteen I fell into an emotionally abusive relationship

So hard

That bruises still linger on my knees

And my palms

Are scraped

Blood oozes

Tears mix

I thank my gods every day that this happened during a global pandemic

Because if it didn’t, I would’ve had to stop working

While everyone else went on

And I can’t handle that

When I was twelve, we took a trip to Great Wolf Lodge

And I remember standing on that balcony

Trembling with anxiety

Wondering if this was my last year of childhood

When I should’ve known that I lost that at ten

When I asked kids to follow the rules our apartment complex association set for us

Do not run, do not scream, do not get too near the apartments

If you must be a child, do so out of sight

And certainly away from potential renters

I don’t remember having much of a childhood

I remember being scared

And sad

And lonely

And anxious

So anxious that it carried over into seventeen

I feel like I’m twelve

And ten

And thirteen

And fourteen

And eight

And these numbers swim in my head until I can’t figure out where I am

When I am

Who I am

And what I need to work on next


This was a hard poem to write. In part because it made me examine memories that I kept quashed for awhile, and in part because it solidified a part of my mind that I didn’t want truly confirmed. Either way, it’s one of the better poems of this season, I believe.


The Monster

There is a monster that threatens to swallow me

And it comes by every day

Sometimes it hides deep inside the closet

And sometimes it sits in my way

I feel the pressure its claws press

Upon my shoulders until I carry it

The monster whispers wicked lies into my head

Until everything feels like shit

The monster spreads out days to weeks

And crunches hours into a flash

It turns compliments into whispers

And reprimands into something rash

The monster causes tears in my eyes

Which drown the back of my mind

In between that and the days I’m barely swimming

And I just want to leave it all behind

I’m scared that I’ll give in like I did before

And let the monster eat me whole

I worry that my days will be months

And I’ll lose a part of my soul

The monster scares me more than a failing grade

Yet it exists inside that too

Along with disappointed sighs and missed out meetings

And uncertainty of what to do

There is a monster that threatens to swallow me

And for now it sits in my heart

I can hear the beat ba-bump away

But what about when it won’t start?


I’m trying to get back into rhyming poetry, and I apologize for none of it being positive. I hope to expand my portfolio of subjects soon, although life is busy. We shall see.


The Future

I don’t know what the future holds.

I just hope it’s quiet

And holds a little more peace

Right now, I’m in pieces

Scattered across the present and the future

Present quickly becoming past

Hindering progress

“That was yesterday’s news”

“What’s new today?”

What holds true today?

What’s in view today?

Because I feel like I’m looking years ahead

And not seeing these ones here at all

I feel like I’m stuck in my head

Lying in bed

Feels like a pause

A comma between the clause of

“If I get a future”


“When I’m perfect”

Perfection has led me in a downward direction

Spiraling my thoughts

Tiring my heart

I don’t know where to start.

Do I quit my job? My school? My classes?

Do I give myself free passes on skipping work?

Do I work myself down to the bones and wonder when I’ll have no marrow

To harrow out from the inside

Pride is a terrible thing.

It holds as a good name for what it brings

But I don’t think it’s pride that made me work

It’s fear.

Fear that I don’t deserve to be here

That I can’t survive if I don’t strive for something better

And greater

And faster

And later

When I’ve done all that I can and achieve all that I could

I’ll wonder then,

Was my future really any good?


Apologies for my hiatus. I lost my sense of time, and when I regained it work just didn’t allow for poems. I wrote this one awhile ago, but I enjoy it immensely. I hope you do too.



I don’t think I would mind

If I got sick from you

Because I’ve never seen you so happy

And I don’t know what to do

Your laugh almost put me to a stop

And the temple punch you struck

You always seemed so incredibly bitter

And just down on all your luck

So hearing you laugh in a way I’ve never heard

Even with your greatest friend

Made a small realization grow in my heart

That I don’t have the heart to see to the end

Because you hate college and “all that school”

But academia is my life

I think we’re both too proud to be good friends

Too much just taken in strife

But I think we could be glorious for a little

“Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” comes to mind

So I don’t think I’d care if you got me sick

I wouldn’t complain about being behind

Not one word about a sniffle or cough

Not one moan from an aching head

Even if your illness made me sluggish

Or confined me to my bed

Because I could rest back on the pillows and smile

Thinking about this strange little love

Of fighting, blood, friendship, and intensity

Wrapped in boxing gloves


A poem about friendship.


The Most Exquisite Kind of Sadness

The most exquisite kind of sadness

Does not exist.

It is an absence.

A void where nothing used to be

And where nothing will remain

It’s a chamber I feel, eating away at my heart

While it whispers in my ear

That there was nothing there to begin with

I can name the greatest time I felt this sadness

And it wasn’t when mourning something that used to exist

I did not feel those exquisite tears fall after funerals

Nor in between goodbyes and good lucks

The sadness came for something that never was

And never will be

A sadness written out in paragraphs and poetry

So long the Iliad looks like a pamphlet

And a comedy

I still feel this sadness sometimes

Because I still keep pursuing those memories

And you can’t remember something that wasn’t there

And you can’t feel what didn’t exist

And you can’t love when they didn’t exist

When he was never there

And today, I write about the most exquisite kind of sadness

Even though it’s an absence


It’s been almost two years since I’ve felt this emotion, but I can recall it like it was yesterday. It still plucks at my heartstrings sometimes. I think that memory built part of who I am today, and although I believe life would be easier without it, I think there was definitely something learned from that time.



I met my mother once

But younger

And he didn’t have her smile

Or maybe he did, but switched

He was taller than a tower

With eyes that melted in their sockets

And my heart.

He reminded me of all the songs she did

Three decades later

Funny how music doesn’t change

Or how people don’t change

“Low Man’s Lyric” still pounds in my head

As my mother lies down

And he lied away

I wanted to know how to fix him

And I still haven’t figured out my mother

I don’t think there’s fixing

Medication only goes so far

Therapy can be just as averse

He hated therapy

But I loved him so much

I saw a therapist to cope

I love my mother so much

I use faith to hope

I think sometimes that there are things my mother won’t ever tell me

And I know there are things he didn’t tell too

Sometimes I think those secrets are not for me

If I knew, I might break down

If I knew, I might just be like her

Or him

Or anyone who knew the weekly vitamin cartridges weren’t full of vitamins

And who constantly asked their dad why mom wasn’t getting up

Who saw shut doors

And silent tears

That screamed help me

Please help me

Or worse, nothing at all

I met a boy who reminded me of my mom

A boy who I cut contact with because he made me sad

I met a boy who I fell in love with

But at least my mom loves me back

I never saw that boy again

But I see my mom everyday

And every day I wonder about how I connected the two

And if I’ll ever learn enough to confirm.


I wrote this one morning after being awoken much too early. By what? I don’t remember. All I remember is the emotion that wrote this poem, and how I didn’t feel like myself for the rest of the day.


Little Love

I feel a strange little love for you

That I don’t quite understand

I feel a little odd when I talk to you

Yet I know exactly where we stand

I see a lot of people’s tears and cry

Because their hurt feels like mine

I think you carry more than you show

And you’ll tell me with time

I want to understand my heart

Like I do my head

I want to know why you have a piece

Yet bring back memories long dead

I know I love you unconventionally

Neither for sex or romance

But a great protective feeling in my heart

Tells me to take a chance

I want to hold you close and feel you cry

Because I can see it in your chest

I want to talk over tea and understand

What you think is best

But this is a difficult situation to be in

Because I’ve been it before

The goal is to not get too attached

Or it burns you to your core

But shit, I think you’ve piqued my interest

Because I feel a strange little love

That makes me want to cry and embrace you

But I still must wear my gloves


There’s an emotion I can’t describe that sits in my heart. It only comes out when I pass certain people, and this was my attempt at conveying it after talking with a dear friend of mine. I think it’s almost a nurturing love, like one feels for their child, but sometimes with complete strangers. Whatever it is, it almost feels like the full spectrum of human emotion compacted into a handful of seconds. I wouldn’t change that for the world.


A Million Conversations

I have a million conversations

That never come to pass

I blame it on my cowardice

My excuse that life moves too fast

I have a million interactions

That will never come to fruition

Because I redirected my focus

To my hobbies or tuition

I have a million times I’ve held my tongue

And a million I’ve stopped my voice

I’ve always been so frustrated

And acted like I had no choice

And I’m not getting any braver

But every day my regret grows

I have a million thoughts running through my head

Yet only a handful I’ll ever show

So know that when I speak to you

And my words get jumbled or fall

I’ve got a million conversations to think of

And I can’t separate them all


I think about talking to people a lot. Perhaps it comes with just overthinking, I’m unsure. But I pass a lot of people, and I think about how so many people don’t believe they are loved, when people fall in love with strangers every day. I think about saying “I love you” to every stranger I’ve ever met sometimes because of it. However, I know that I couldn’t separate that conversation from the millions of others in my head.



Sometimes I feel like a burden

Not everything I’ve had I’ve earned

Not everything I’ve memorized I’ve learned

Like I just spit whatever comes to mind

And I’m always lucky that it’s the right thing to find

I feel awkward and bulky

A mass that’s strange and hulky

Something that shouldn’t always exist where it does

Something that should’ve been born not where it was

Sometimes I think I slow people down

Because I hate all loud sound

And I can’t be touched for too long

Or I really, really hate that song

And sometimes it’s just because I speak

And my voice comes out too high, too weak

I sometimes feel too weak to talk

Sometimes I feel too weak to walk

Yet I power through knowing there’s a way to prove my worth

That I was born here and that my mother gave birth

To something not disappointing

Something anointing

A new tradition

A new vision

Sometimes I feel myself wishing for a different world

One where I can watch everything perfectly unfurl

Like rose petals in spring

Or the notes that the songbirds sing

But for now, I look at the world in disdain

And it stares at me and tries in vain

To whip me into a shape I loathe by the day

But hopefully, maybe, this problem will go away



This is an older poem, from a time I don’t quite remember but still sits in my heart. I think everyone feels like a burden, sometimes. Part of me wonders if being a “burden” comes from comparing ourselves to society or to what we hope to be in the future. Either way, I believe the remedy is to live in the present, because at least then, life moves too quickly to allow time for regret.


Life’s Unfair

What’s the point of doing something when you’re not there

That’s kind of unfair

Because you see

I had a love that used to precede

The way I felt about you

The love of learning, of what I do

But now, all I can think about is how you’re not the there

To watch me fly right through the air

I think of your moves and the fight you give

I think about how I can’t continue to live

In this little weird space

Where my heart wants when my head says no

I can’t think about the opposites that continue to grow

I can’t keep thinking about you at night

I can’t let the sun set and keep you in my sight

Because in the end, I just know I’ll get hurt

Leaving my head in the clouds and my heart in the dirt

Because I feel the little pain when you’re not there

It makes me bitter because life’s unfair

I didn’t ask to think you’re great

I didn’t ask for something I hate

I didn’t want to feel this way

I didn’t want to wake up and anticipate this day

And dread it all the same

Please stop the game

You’re not even playing

I can’t keep praying

That we’ll have a moment to ourselves

To work out how we feel

Instead, I’ll just mourn when you’re absent

And let life’s unfairness seem a little more real


I don’t do well with wanting. Perhaps it makes for better poetry, but I’m not sure. Although I’m not putting out the best work right now, I do have some writings and I consider that a win.