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The Ultimatum
“You want me to amputate my past to secure your future. But what kind of love asks for blood?” “If being mine means cutting out the people who watered me through drought, then I choose the rain over your desert.”
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Flow Unrestricted: A Love Letter from the Universe
“You ask me what magic is. I say: magic is when you stop trying to become extraordinary and remember you already are.” Let the universe speak through you. It is a tender, powerful invitation to surrender, listen, and rediscover the quiet magic waiting to rise from within.
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The Biggest Lie
“The biggest lie of my life was not a betrayal of someone else. It was a betrayal of myself.” “I’m not fine. I’m barely here. I forget what joy feels like. I’m holding myself together with old emails and duct tape.”
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You Know What? I Quit.
“I quit because I lost track of who I was doing it for. There was a time I would write with dirt beneath my fingernails… Now I Google ‘trending themes.’” This isn’t surrender. It’s reclamation. I’m not going silent — I’m going sovereign.
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for the Disconnected Self
No funeral marked the moment I lost myself, no eulogy read as I dissolved into scrolls, swipes, pings, alerts— digital rosaries I clutched more tightly than prayer.
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The Friend Who Holds Without Clutching
What do I value most in a friend? Not brilliance, not boldness — but gentleness. The quiet kind, that listens without interrupting, that holds space instead of demanding explanation. This poem is a love letter to those who tend rather than fix, who sit with silence instead of fleeing it. A candle in the storm.…
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What Mamaw Told the Creek
“Don’t cross no river mad,” she’d warn. “It remembers.” In the hush of Tucker’s Ridge, Mamaw held the past like a quilt in her lap—stitched with floods, love gone sideways, and the music of a creek that always knew more than it said.
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The Moon Stayed, But You Didn’t
I looked at the moon. I whispered your name. It stayed. But you… you didn’t. The sky didn’t flinch. But I did. Again and again. This is the anthem of the ones who still set the table for someone who never knocks.
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The Unwritten Résumé: A soul-whisper
I once folded time in the scent of warm bread, a 3 a.m. baker in a town that forgot the moon… Now I’m a collector of all that never made it to résumé paper— a curator of invisible work.
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Do I Practice Religion? (a confessional disarray)
i chew the question slowly— like stale gum with notes of chalk, echoes of old lectures from people who talked at the sky and thought the clouds nodded.
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