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Before the First Cry
When the world feels empty and your own shadow seems distant, return to your first home — the quiet ocean of your mother’s womb — where you floated without fear, without hurry, held by a heartbeat older than language. This poem is an intimate inward journey that remembers our earliest belonging and gently opens into…
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We Are Stardust After All
We are not accidents of chemistry. We are aftermaths of explosion. We are light that survived its own destruction. In the narrow corridor of time, we learn how to love, how to ache, how to look at the sky and recognize it not as something distant—but as something happening quietly, miraculously, within us. #PebbleGalaxy #SoulfulWriting…
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While Some Skies Burn, We Still Throw Colours into the Wind
While some skies burn and sirens carve the air into sharp pieces, we are still called to lift colour in our palms and release it to the wind — not as denial, not as shallow celebration, but as prayer. This poem is an intimate meditation on choosing love and peace in a fractured world, tracing…
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Unmarked by His Scales: His T-Shirt Reads “Humanist”
His T-shirt reads humanist, and on his desk the polished brass scales gleam with practiced certainty. One by one he drops his uniform stones — ping on ping — and the beam tilts against all my words. None bear the mark of his name. Yet beyond the window, rivers refuse rulers, clouds cross the sun…
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Source, Not Reflection: You Are Not a Concept
You are not a concept, not a metaphor pressed between the pages of someone else’s understanding. You are reality — breath, pulse, fire. A candle trembles. The moon reflects. But the sun burns from its own core. Disconnect from the old pond of still reflections. Step into the river. Let the current loosen your borrowed…
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What Writing Gives Me That Nothing Else Does
There are things I cannot say in a room full of breathing bodies. They turn to vapor before they reach my mouth. But when I sit before a blank page, something in me loosens. Writing becomes shoreline, telescope, shelter, and sky — a place where I can contradict myself without apology, where grief expands to…
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The Questions I Am Afraid to Answer
Even in drought, the river remembers. Beneath cracked earth and sun-split stone, a silver memory waits— of currents that once roared without apology, of banks that trembled under the weight of abundance. What looks empty is only gathering breath. What seems broken still carries the map of its own flood. #WriteAPageADay #FreeVerse #InnerJourney #NatureMetaphor #CosmicAwareness…
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The Chapter I Am Learning to Name
If my life had chapters with dog-eared corners and tea-stained margins, this present one would not arrive with spectacle. It would move like groundwater beneath visible fields — quiet, persistent, reshaping the roots. This is the chapter where I stop conquering mountains and begin becoming them; where I trade urgency for awareness, noise for listening,…
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The Promise I Keep Making to Myself
There is a promise I keep folding into my pocket like a small square of paper, softened by forgetting. It does not arrive with noise or ceremony. It comes like dawn—without asking the night for permission. Again and again, I return to it: a quiet vow to live awake, to forgive my unfinished edges, and…
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What Home Means to Me Now
Home used to be an address, a gate, a familiar bell at dusk. Now it is quieter and closer—found in breath, in forgiveness, in the widening sky within. No longer bound by walls or geography, home has become an inner returning, a living field of presence where earth and starlight meet in the simple awareness…
Got any book recommendations?
Between Stars & Silence 