Category: Poetry

In shadows deep, where silence clings,
A whisper coils with broken wings.
It calls a name through fractured light,
A tug of war each endless night.

The bottle, pill, or smoke-stained breath,
A dance that tiptoes close to death.
What once felt warm becomes a chain,
A fleeting balm, a lasting pain.

The mirror lies, the soul it mocks,
Behind locked doors, behind the locks.
“I’ll stop tomorrow,” hearts repeat,
But shame is loud and hope discreet.

A trembling hand, a weary eye,
That scans the world and wonders why.
Why peace feels far and pain so near,
Why courage shakes beneath the fear.

But still—there burns a stubborn spark,
A flicker fighting through the dark.
A voice that rises, hoarse and true:
“You are not done. Life isn’t through.”

One step, then two, along the climb,
Out from the pit, past guilt and time.
The path is jagged, steep, unsure,
But love walks with us, patient, pure.

So if you fall, don’t fall alone,
There’s strength in voices on the phone,
In meetings held and hands held tight—
In every dawn that follows night.

Addiction steals, but grace can give,
A second chance, a way to live.
And though the struggle scars the skin,
The healing always starts within.

I spent two weeks and three surgeries later in the hospital with an infection. I am now just able to sit at my desk and write. This is something I came up with in the hospital.

Open Wounds

They stitched me back but not quite whole,
A seam unraveled in the soul.
The scalpel’s truth, so sharp, so clean—
Left echoes where the pain had been.

A wound may gape, may weep, may bleed,
But healing doesn’t match our need.
The flesh reforms in stubborn time,
While silence clots the inward rhyme.

The skin, once smooth, now knows the blade,
A map of what could not be stayed.
And underneath, the nerves still twitch,
A phantom throb, a fevered glitch.

Sterile rooms and whispered charts,
Can’t mend the torn-up, fragile parts.
Though dressings change and scars will fade,
Some hurts are deeper than a blade.

So let it breathe—this aching space,
The gap between the cut and grace.
For healing isn’t just a close,
It’s living with what never goes.

Born in the smoke where the brave dare not tread,
With fire in its pistons and hunger for red.
The Dodge Demon growls with a devilish grin,
A beast from Detroit with sin in its skin.

Its heart—supercharged—beats wild and loud,
A thunderous echo that gathers a crowd.
840 horses scream under the hood,
Unleashing raw chaos, misunderstood.

Slick tires grip as the rear end slides,
It dances with danger, where fear resides.
Quarter mile dreams in ten-second bursts,
It flies down the strip, forever cursed.

Hellcat’s big brother, unleashed and unchained,
Built for the bold, never the tamed.
A muscle-bound legend, born to defy,
The laws of the road and the limits of sky.

Steel and desire, forged into flame,
A car, yes—but more than a name.
It’s the rebel’s whisper, the outlaw’s gleam,
The Dodge Demon—an American dream.

In the hush before the thunder roars,
The 410 waits on dirt-clad floors.
A beast of wings and steel-framed might,
Built for war, for speed, for flight.

Methanol breath and fire-born lungs,
Its engine chants in piston tongues.
A blur of chrome, a savage spark,
A hawk unleashed in the racing dark.

Tires claw the clay with violent grace,
Throwing dust like war paint on its face.
No mirrors here, just forward rage,
A gladiator in a wire-caged stage.

With each green flag, the world lets go—
Time bends beneath the chassis low.
It dances sideways, slides and dives,
Alive in turns where chaos thrives.

The driver grips through trembling force,
Hands and heart aligned with course.
In every lap, a risk embraced,
In every pass, the edge is chased.

No million-dollar showroom star,
No polished name in NASCAR’s jar—
But here, where sweat and gravel meet,
The 410’s soul is raw, complete.

So raise a cheer as engines scream,
For those who chase a dirt-track dream.
Where legends rise in fleeting light,
And sprint cars vanish into night.

The wind turns soft with secrets told,
Of summer’s flame now growing old.
Leaves once green in youthful cheer
Blush gold and rust as fall draws near.

A hush descends, a mellow sigh,
As geese sketch longing in the sky.
The sun, less bold, begins to fade,
Its warmth a thread that slips, unmade.

Winter creeps on silent feet,
Blankets earth in hush and sleet.
Beneath the frost, a seed still dreams—
Of thawing rains and greening streams.

Then spring, with hands of emerald light,
Unlaces roots and wakes the night.
Blossoms stretch in scented praise,
Borne from sleep to sunlit days.

So round it turns, the endless spin,
Of endings where new life begins.
Each season sings a note, apart—
A changing choir in nature’s heart.

It starts as a whisper, soft in the bones,
A flicker of warmth where the cold had grown.
A promise of quiet, a lull in the ache—
A fleeting escape that you didn’t quite take.

But soon it is louder than thoughts in your head,
It dances at night while you toss in your bed.
It sings like a siren, it claws like regret,
It teaches you how not to love or forget.

It wears different faces—bottle or pill,
A needle, a wager, a chase, or a thrill.
It’s clever and patient, it knows all your names,
It hides in your shadow and plays at your games.

Your friends start to vanish, your mirrors grow dim,
Your voice gets much smaller, while it learns to swim
In the depths of your soul where your secrets reside,
And soon, you’re the shell where the hunger can hide.

But somewhere inside, there’s a flickering flame,
A whisper of you still refusing the shame.
And maybe one day, you will stand and reclaim
The body, the mind, and the soul that it maimed.

For healing is brutal and breaking is loud,
But hope doesn’t care if you’re lost in the crowd.
It waits by the ruins with lantern in hand—
Not asking for answers, just helping you stand.

The sky is wrapped in woolen gray,
A hush drapes over light and day.
No golden beams, no sapphire bright,
Just drifting veils of muted white.

The wind, a whisper soft and low,
Moves through the trees with tempered woe.
Leaves shiver, grass bends, puddles gleam,
As silver skies suppress the gleam.

No shadow dances on the ground,
No warmth in the sun’s embrace is found.
Yet in this hush, the world feels wide—
A breath of calm, the storm’s soft side.

The clouds may weep, or they may stay,
A solemn guard, a cloak of gray.
Yet even now, in dim-lit air,
A hidden beauty lingers there.

The field, a canvas of emerald green,
Fresh chalk lines sharp and clean.
Sunlight spills, warm and wide,
Stadium gates swing open with pride.

Leather gloves oiled and tight,
Bats lean heavy, maple and pine.
A thousand voices hum with delight,
Stitching hope into every line.

Pitchers wind, shoulders loose,
Seams spin true, fast and cruel.
A crack like thunder, white against blue,
Infield dirt kissed by leather and fuel.

Eyes trace arcs in the sky’s expanse,
Outfielders poised, lithe in stance.
The crowd inhales, a breath held long,
Spring’s anthem rising, bold and strong.

Hot dogs, peanuts, banners that sway,
Children with gloves, eyes wide and bright.
Scoreboards flash, innings to play,
Under soft sun’s lingering light.

Old ghosts stir in dugouts and seats,
Legends etched deep in ivy and brick.
Stories retold in slow summer heats,
Moments suspended, timeless and quick.

Opening Day, where dreams ignite,
With every pitch and dust-cloud rise.
Hope rounds the bases, daring flight—
In baseball’s promise, summer lies.

A whisper stirs at dawn’s first light,
A yearning deep, a spirit bright.
Beyond the hills, where shadows fall,
The wanderer’s soul heeds freedom’s call.

It sheds its chains of earth and stone,
To tread where ancient winds have blown.
Through forests thick and oceans wide,
It dances free, no path denied.

Beneath the stars of desert skies,
Through cities veiled in bright disguise,
It gathers tales from lips unknown,
Each heartbeat claimed, each story sewn.

A mountain peak, a hidden cave,
A storm that roars, a sea that’s brave.
It learns the secrets rivers sing,
And feels the thunder’s echo ring.

In temples old, where silence dwells,
Amidst the chime of distant bells,
It questions gods in painted halls,
And bows to mysteries that brawl.

A market hums with scents and sound,
The soul is lost, then newly found.
Eyes meet and part, a fleeting role,
A thousand lives within one soul.

Through battlefields where shadows lay,
It weeps for dawns that bled to gray.
Yet, in each ruin, flowers bloom,
New songs arise from dust and gloom.

Time cannot bind its restless feet,
Nor death’s dark veil, nor fate’s deceit.
For even when one journey ends,
Another road, uncharted, bends.

And so it roams, forever free,
Through golden sands and emerald sea.
A traveler bold, who claims the whole—
The endless quest of a wandering soul.

In the quiet corridors of my mind,
shadows bloom in silent disarray—
a weight unseen, a chill that clings
to every whispered memory.

Each day, a slow descent
into a sea of muted grays,
where laughter is a distant echo
and hope, a fragile ember fighting the dark.

Yet in this solitude, a truth persists:
even the deepest night cradles the promise
of a dawn not yet imagined.

If you find these words resonate,
remember you are not alone—
in shared silence, we may find the strength
to kindle our own light.