A Dam Built by Shadows
Love, a river once wide,
now a trickle between jagged rocks,
parched throats of longing drink dust instead of nectar.
Who raised the dam?
Who built these walls?
Not stone, not steel,
but whispers turned to echoes, echoes turned to thunder,
thunder turned to silence.
Love once poured through fingertips,
filling the hollow of palms,
bathing skin in warmth,
rinsing wounds with understanding.
Now, hands clench into fists,
nails pressing against flesh,
afraid to open, afraid to reach,
afraid to spill the weight of their own gravity.
Ego stands at the gates, a gatekeeper who forgot his name,
hoards keys that fit no locks,
forges chains from words unsaid,
hoists a banner that reads: "Mine."
Mine, mine, mine,
the chant of a heart walled off in its own cold logic.
The Keeper of Self
Who is this faceless king in a castle of mirrors,
who sharpens his tongue into a blade,
who polishes his armor until even the sun looks away?
Who whispers "I" louder than "we"?
Who believes that surrender is a wound,
not a doorway?
He wears titles embroidered in barbed wire:
Righteous One, Untouched One, Unbent One.
His throne is made of explanations,
his scepter an ironclad belief in his own shape,
his crown forged from victories no one else remembers.
He does not know he is drowning,
but he calls the water power.
The Illusion of Holding
What is ego but a hand clutching sand,
calling it a monument?
What is ego but a voice afraid to crack,
calling silence wisdom?
What is ego but the fear of disappearing,
and the refusal to melt into the ocean of something greater?
Ego is a painter who refuses to blend colors,
insisting red is red, blue is blue,
never seeing the purple waiting to be born.
Ego is a lighthouse that refuses to shine for others,
believing it is the only ship that matters.
Love asks for water to flow,
but ego builds walls and calls them protection.
Love asks for arms to open,
but ego clasps them tight and calls it dignity.
The Craft of Distance
How does ego stop love?
It does not use swords, nor fire, nor war cries.
No, ego is quiet.
Ego is the slow retreat,
the unspoken, the glance away,
the turned back, the step not taken.
Ego folds its arms when love needs hands.
Ego bites its tongue when love needs words.
Ego stands still when love needs movement.
It builds a dam not of stone but of moments.
Missed moments, lost moments,
moments where one could have leaned in
but chose to lean away.
And love? Love waits.
Love watches.
Love whispers, "Come back."
But ego, oh ego,
it pretends not to hear.
The Architect of Isolation
Ego walks alone,
but tells itself it is free.
Ego eats from a table set for one,
but calls it a feast.
Ego locks the door,
then asks why no one knocks.
It confuses pride for worth,
control for strength,
distance for safety.
It fears melting,
because it has spent too long believing
it must hold its shape.
But love, oh love,
love has never needed a shape.
Love spills, love seeps, love stretches.
Love has never been afraid of losing itself.
The Shatter Before the Stream
The dam must crack.
The walls must shake.
The fortress must crumble into dust
before the river can return.
And so, a word—just one—
is a hammer to the stone.
A touch—so light—
is a wind that bends the steel.
A tear—not shameful—
is the first rain after a long, dry war.
Let it break.
Let it shatter.
Let it unmake you.
The Return of the Current
And when the floodgates open,
when ego falls to its knees,
when the armor rusts,
when the voice softens,
when the hands unclench—
what then?
The river does not ask where it has been.
It does not demand an explanation.
It only moves forward.
It carries what it can.
It kisses the earth where it meets.
The current sings:
"Welcome back."
The Ocean Waiting at the End
Love does not keep score.
Love does not carry receipts.
Love does not say, "I told you so."
It moves, it bends, it wraps itself around what remains.
It does not ask for perfection,
only presence.
Ego is a dam,
but love is the ocean.
And no matter how high the walls rise,
the ocean is always waiting.
The Unfinished Story
Love does not end where ego begins.
Love waits, love watches, love whispers.
Not as a beggar, not as a prisoner,
but as something patient, something knowing.
And when ego tires,
when it no longer wishes to stand guard,
when it surrenders its last brick—
love will be there,
as if it never left.
#Ego #Love #Poetry #SelfAwareness #EmotionalBarriers #PersonalGrowth #Relationships #Vulnerability #BreakTheWalls #UnravelingEgo
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