Tag: poet

  • BRIEF WARMTH, LONG ECHO.

    Just another season passing through 🖤

  • QUIET SURVIVAL

    I spent years
    waiting for grief
    to come roaring back through the door.

    Instead it learned to sit beside me.

    Never gone,
    only softer now,
    lingering like an old friend waiting across the table.

    The years no longer howl
    like they used to.

    Light returns slowly,
    through the kitchen windows,
    laying gold across unwashed dishes
    and half-watered plants.


    Half-warm coffee.
    Rain against the garden.
    The cat asleep nearby.
    My name resting safely in my own hands.

    The light asks nothing of me.

    There are still nights
    where memory returns like weather,
    slow thunder in the bones,
    old wounds opening their tired mouths—

    but it passes.

    I no longer confuse peace with emptiness.

    No one tells you,
    how strange it feels
    when your life finally stops hurting.


    How silence itself
    can make you weep.

    Some wounds never vanish.
    They simply loosen their grip.

    The world grows around it.


    Now the winters arrive gently.
    Not as punishment—
    just another season passing through.

  • WATCHING IT CHANGE

    Hues of soft flame
    burning through the sky.

    Pink whispers.
    Orange bleeding through.

    Blues fade—
    clouds turn.

    Then
    midnight
    takes it all.

    And I stay
    to watch it
    become something else.

  • JUST ENOUGH

    I stayed standing
    Not steady—
    Just enough
    to pass as strength.

    Bending quietly.

    Hands shaking.

    Mind slipping—
    just enough to lose hold.

    No one noticed
    how close I was.

  • they never stop running—until they crash.

  • And some things stay–quiet, but certain.

  • I REMEMBER


    I remember every word 
    that cut me open.

    I remember every fire 
    that left more 
    than it burned.

    I remember the void 
    that kept growing 
    until there was nothing else.

    I remember the storm 
    that almost took me—

    almost.

    I remember every hit, 
    every mark. 
    every scar—

    inside 
    and out.

  • Daffodils and daisies
    were meant to bloom—

    nothing did.

    abandoned.

    what remains?

  • THE WRATH OF THE BROKEN

    I carried the wrath of the broken.

    Or maybe—

    It carried me.

     

    Are we broken for the better,

    Or just addicted to the dark?

     

    A rose in the mud.

    Wrong side of midnight.

    Nothing grows here—

    It survives.

     

    Shadows of old friends

    Linger longer than they should.

     

    Laughter echoes—

    Warped now,

    Still sharp enough to cut.

     

    There is a stillness

    Between breaths.

     

    Not peace—

    Just pause.

     

    We reach for it anyway,

    Mistaking silence

    For healing.

     

    Trapped in the quiet unravelling,

    We miss the tremors

    Of collapse.

     

    No impact.

    No warning.

     

    Just the slow, sinking truth—

     

    We were never fighting anything else.

     

    We became

    The enemy

    We swore we’d never face.

     

  • LOOK / SEARCH / YEARN


    LOOK FOR


    A horizon
    that doesn’t fade
    when you reach it.

    A purpose
    that survives the quiet.

    A reason
    not to burn it all down.

    Something that holds
    when you lean—
    And doesn’t give.

    SEARCH FOR


    A place
    where you don’t perform.

    A landing
    that doesn’t collapse.

    A room inside you
    that doesn’t echo.

    A truth
    that survives the storm—
    Not gentle,
    but still yours.
     
    YEARN FOR


    A home
    that doesn’t bruise.

    Warmth
    that doesn’t leave.

    Something
    that doesn’t shrink you
    or ask you to betray yourself.

    Yearn for the self
    that stops asking.

    The one that stands—
    Unflinching,
    unchosen by fear.

    The one that takes the throne
    without apology—
    After everything
    it bled to keep.

  • REVIVAL

    Regrowth is not gentle.
    I died at midnight—

    A slow bleed,
    crying spells,
    fractures beneath the surface.

    Learning to grow
    in the soil of last year’s failures—
    they are lessons,
    not a death sentence.

    I shed the stories that kept me small,
    shut the doors that fed the dark.
    I make peace with sunlight,
    and the quiet pull of moonlit nights.

    I embrace the changes—

    soft,
    loud,
    necessary.

    I hold the tender moments.

    I love—despite the madness.

    Revival.

  • Burning out, beautifully
    – Jacqueline Lente Poetry

  • ALL THE YEARS COLLIDED

  • STARGAZING

  • Artworks

    I want to know the truth of your soul,
    Your strength, your story,
    The fire that drives your heartbeat forward through the night.

    I’m not afraid of the monsters you carry—
    The rage born of old wounds, the scars,
    The hurt forged in your bones.

    I am no stranger to the dark underworld;
    My monsters, my oldest companions—
    Linger like background noise that refuses to die away.

    But we are not our monsters;
    We are what we create from the mess they leave behind.


    Show me the artworks of your life.

    Create some magic with me.