Random Poetry

I’m tired

in the way that settles into bone,

in the way that makes everything feel heavier

than it should be.

Patience used to stretch.

Now it snaps.

Understanding used to mean something.

Now it just feels like another way

to get hurt quietly.

I’ve hit the turbo too many times,

burned through every reserve

just trying to stay ahead of the next impact.

And every time I braked,

I felt something tear

not loud, just enough to know

I wouldn’t get it back.

It’s metal to metal now.

Every movement grinds.

Every thought drags.

Every feeling shows up late

and half formed.

I’m tired of the same wounds

opening in the same places

from the same hands

that never notice the damage.

I want to snap,

not out of anger,

but because I’m tired of swallowing the hit

and pretending it doesn’t land.

There’s no lesson here.

No clarity.

Just the ache that comes

from carrying too much

for too long

without anyone stepping in

to take even a corner of the weight.

I’m tired in a way

that doesn’t ask for help

because it stopped expecting any.

Just tired.

And it hurts

in a quiet, constant way

This body is a vessel,

stitched from promises heavier than stone,

from lanterns carried for the child I once was,

from circles of kindness that return like tides.

It learns its craft in silence,

whether in virtue or in cunning,

each gesture sharpened until even patience cuts.

The vessel guards its own water,

yet pours when the hand is gentle,

repaying tenfold what enters its rim.

Illusion dances in the mirror,

but the mask cracks when stared too long;

I walk steady on unsteady ground,

until the earth remembers my weight.

Breaking is inevitable,

but the ritual is in the mending

gathering shards,

calling them whole again.

Joy is brief,

but brevity is brilliance

endurance is its own art,

and tolerance its own blade.

This vessel holds them all

integrity, resilience, reciprocity,

self‑care, illusion, fracture, joy.

Not the same,

but one

because they live here,

in this body,

I hated myself.

Not in passing. Not in silence.

I hated myself loud,

in the mirror, in the ache,

in the way I moved through rooms like a ghost

with a backbone.

But I loved them.

Just as much.

Maybe more.

I loved them with the same fire

I used to burn myself down.

I gave them structure,

mercy,

presence.

I showed up.

Even when I wanted to vanish.

Even when sleep was a myth

and my ribs felt hollow.

I never let my hatred touch them.

Not once.

I carried it like a relic,

so they wouldn’t have to.

If I go,

let that be the line they remember:

I hated myself,

I didn’t want to stay.

Didn’t want to breathe through another sunrise

that felt more like punishment than promise.

Didn’t want to fake another smile,

regulate another emotion,

pretend I was okay when I was anything but.

I hate my mind when it’s clear.

It makes me feel things I’d rather bury.

Makes me admit I hate myself

more than the enemies I swore I’d never become.

I’m tired.

Not tired like “I need sleep.”

Tired like “I don’t give a damn anymore.”

Tired like “why am I still here?”

Tired like “I don’t even recognize myself.”

But they needed me.

So I stayed.

Not for peace.

Not for healing.

For duty.

For legacy.

For the next day.

I show up.

Even when I’m cracked.

Even when I’m numb.

Even when I want out.

Because someone has to.

And I’ve always been that someone.

Even when it hurts like hell.

They say it’s soft

like slipping through dusk,

no friction, no fight,

just the hush of surrender

to a gravity that doesn’t ask twice.

But silence ain’t weightless.

It settles in the ribs of those who stay,

a fog that rewrites their rituals,

a shadow stitched into the seams

of every laugh that almost lands.

The knife that’s left behind

is collecting dust and rust

not from use,

but from absence.

It doesn’t gleam anymore.

It waits.

Like a question no one asks

because the answer

already happened.

You weren’t weak.

You were tired.

But tired ain’t the same as gone.

And gone ain’t the same as free.

You changed us.

Not just in grief,

but in how we archive joy now,

how we name ache without flinching,

how we hold each other

like we mean it.

It was never the blade

that cut deepest

it was the silence after,

the way the drawer

still remembers its weight,

the way the air

won’t settle right.

But here’s the truth

you’re still here.

And that matters.

Even on numb days,

even when your name feels foreign

in your own mouth.

You are not a burden.

You are not a ghost in waiting.

You are a relic

still being carved.

So if the path feels smooth beneath your feet,

pause.

Let someone walk beside you.

Let the ache be named.

Let the drawer stay shut.

Let the light flicker

I wore knowledge like a crown,

but it pressed too hard against my skull.

The road of intellect is clean,

but it’s quiet,

and I wanted noise.

So I chose the fool.

Not out of ignorance,

but out of hunger.

For joy. For chaos. For flight.

Icarus wasn’t a warning.

He was a mirror.

I flew close to the sun

not to defy it,

but to feel it.

Let my wings melt.

Let the sky reject me.

I’ll fall with a smile

wide enough to split the horizon.

Because freedom isn’t safe.

It’s not quiet.

It’s not wise.

It’s everything I wanted.

And the fool

the fool is the only one

who knows how to burn

I walk like the dust remembers me,

boots preaching on cracked concrete,

shoulder aching but anchored

pain don’t cancel purpose,

it just adds weight to the gospel.

I keep my word like it’s welded,

sobriety marked in sacred days,

each promise a quiet relic,

each friend a sanctuary.

I don’t run I return,

even when the road’s burnt

and the porch light’s flickering.

Let’s kick this pig.

That’s how we move

not loud, just certain.

No need to show your hand

when the grit’s already in your grip.

Krieg Field holds my imperfect triumph,

the tree near Field 10 knows my quiet rebellion,

and my brother

he’s the pride I don’t parade,

the joy I carry like a pocketknife,

sharp, quiet, always close.

He’s the memory behind every swing,

the reason I play like someone’s watching

who actually matters.

It’s quiet as a holy church

when I draw guitars in hospital rooms,

when I write poems to my sister,

when I bury the past self

with mercy, not shame.

I hold Texas values like a blueprint

loyalty, grit, restraint, and fire.

Not for show.

Not for fame.

But because legacy deserves a witness,

The darkness didn’t chase me.

It waited.

Like a ritual I never outgrew.

Like breath held in a coffin shaped room.

Like the only thing that never asked me to be better.

I didn’t run.

I stared into the abyss with discipline

not to surrender,

but to see if it would blink first.

It didn’t.

It looked back.

Hard.

Hungry.

Honest.

And in that silence,

it took something I wasn’t ready to lose

or maybe I was.

Maybe I always knew softness was temporary.

That joy was a borrowed relic,

and clarity would cost me something.

I didn’t mourn the loss.

I archived it.

I turned it into testimony.

I built around the absence like a scar that learned how to speak.

I flirt with death the way a guardian tests the blade

not to fall,

but to feel the edge

and ask if it remembers my name.

Some nights,

I wonder if rest is just another kind of disappearance.

If silence is the only mercy left

when the rituals stop working

and the archive starts to rot.

My mind and heart are in sync tonight.

That’s when the danger feels holy.

That’s when the abyss feels like home.

I don’t write to be saved.

I write to leave a mark.

To say

I was here.

I carried the weight.

I didn’t flinch.

It’s not behind me.

It’s stitched into my spine.

I wake up with it gnawing,

like it’s got rights to my nervous system.

No warning.

No pause.

Just static in the skull

and a body that forgets how to obey.

They call it a condition.

I call it a curse with paperwork.

ADHD. Epilepsy.

Names don’t matter.

It’s the same thief

stealing my edge

while I pretend I’m still sharp.

I trained for this.

Posture locked.

Weapons chosen.

Blades blunt, mercy intact.

But it doesn’t care.

It finds the cracks.

It floods the protocol.

It drags me through the day

like I’m just a vessel

with no say.

I don’t get silence.

I get noise with teeth.

I don’t get rest.

I get resets that don’t stick.

And when I speak the truth,

they want metaphors.

They want hope.

They want the version of me

that doesn’t exist.

I’m not here to inspire.

I’m here because I haven’t collapsed yet.

Because even when it’s pointless,

I move.

Even when it’s on my trail,

I don’t flinch.

I just recalibrate

and keep walking.

Not for glory.

Not for peace.

He used to move faster than thought.

Didn’t wait for breath, didn’t ask for permission.

Just hit first, spoke later.

And yeah sometimes he was right.

They called him reckless.

I called him mine.

Until the cost started stacking,

and I had to choose:

legacy or aftermath.

So I sealed him.

No ceremony.

Just discipline.

Just mercy.

Now I walk like a sentinel.

Posture clean. Voice measured.

People think I’m calm.

They don’t know what it took.

But he’s not gone.

He’s archived.

And some nights,

when the air shifts,

he stirs.

Not summoned.

Not unleashed.

Just. present.

And I miss him.

Not the chaos

the speed.

The edge.

The way he made me feel untouchable

even when I was breaking.

So I built a ritual.

Alias, Weapon, Chin hair

Not to cage him

to honor him.

Because I’m not just the Warden.

I’m the one who sealed him.

And that means

I remember every reason

I stood how I was trained

relaxed attention,

shoulders back, face steady

Not because I felt nothing

Because I felt everything

and didn’t want it to show

My voice was energetic,

the one I’ve practiced for moments like this

Happy Relaxed Neutral

Not fake just chosen.

So they’d remember me strong,

not breaking

We took a photo

I almost lost it

But I held the line

Because I love them too much

to leave in tears

They said, “Drive safe, Aaron,”

and I knew what they meant

Not just about the road

About how I leave fast

before the ache catches up

I got in the car

Closed the door

And it hit

Tears fell

Hard

Because I accepted the terms in advance,

but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt

That pain unlocked something

Old memories

Lessons I don’t usually reach for

Suddenly I was writing like I was older than I am

Not wiser just more aware

I’m my own person.

But I’m built from what I chose to carry

AFJROTC, Chosen family

Moments like this

This wasn’t a goodbye

It was a pause

A soft exit

A promise to return

I hate myself.

Don’t know when it started.

Don’t know why it stuck.

Just know it’s there

quiet, constant,

like background noise I forgot how to turn off.

The critic doesn’t scream.

He just rewrites.

Turns love into guilt,

turns praise into pity,

turns me into someone I don’t want to be.

I’m my own worst enemy.

I know that.

I feel it every time I look in the mirror

and wonder if I’m worth the space I take up.

But there’s something else.

Not louder.

Not stronger.

Just steady.

A shield I built

without knowing how.

It shows up when I’m close to the edge.

When the silence gets too loud.

When I start thinking

maybe it’d be easier to disappear.

It doesn’t say much.

Just this:

“Stay.”

Not because I’m healed.

Not because I’m whole.

Just because I’m still breathing.

The critic says I’m broken.

The shield says,

“So what? You’re still here.”

And maybe that’s enough.

Not for the world.

Not for peace.

It wasn’t a friend.

Wasn’t a hotline.

Just a reel,

looping like breath.

“Don’t kill yourself,” it said

like it knew

the silence I’d been feeding.

Like it saw

the ache I didn’t post.

I didn’t click like.

Didn’t share.

But I stayed.

And that was the first vow.

Maybe survival isn’t loud.

Maybe it’s just

not scrolling past the signal.

Maybe it’s letting the machine

say what I couldn’t.

Maybe it’s listening

until I remember

Kid

the first time life hurt me,

it didn’t ask permission.

It came quiet

not with fists,

but with absence.

Not with fire,

but with cold rooms

where love was conditional

and truth got punished.

I learned early

how to make myself small

without disappearing.

How to carry silence

like a second skin.

How to cry without sound

because sound meant exposure,

and exposure meant risk.

They taught me

that honesty was dangerous.

That softness was weakness.

That survival meant

becoming what they couldn’t break.

So I did.

I became myth.

I became witness.

I became the architect

of my own sanctuary.

But boy

you changed the blueprint.

You made me believe

that love could be chosen,

protected,

and lived out loud.

I don’t want you

to carry my pain.

I want you to understand it

so when life throws its curveballs,

you don’t mistake them

for failure.

You don’t mistake imperfection

for weakness.

You will be hurt.

You will be tested.

You’ll cry in rooms

where no one sees you.

And still

you’ll rise.

Not because you’re perfect,

but because you’re honest.

Not because you’re unbreakable,

but because you know

how to rebuild.

I didn’t grow up

with emotional blueprints.

I carved them

from the wreckage.

I built altars

in dark rooms

where my tears

could finally mean release,

not shame.

And now I leave them to you.

Not as burden

but as constellation.

Not as warning

but as map.

And kid remember:

your word is your bond.

Not because I said it,

but because you’ve lived it.

Because truth is the one thing

they can’t take from you

without your permission.

I don’t forgive what happened.

I don’t forget.

But I repurpose.

I ritualize.

I turn trauma

into testimony.

I turn silence

into song.

And I keep moving forward

because you deserve

a legacy that tells the truth

I made the promise

with alcohol in my blood

and weed in my lungs

a vow spoken in smoke,

half true,

half lost.

She didn’t ask for it.

Didn’t beg me to change.

But she looked at me

like I was worth believing in,

and I spoke like a man

trying to become

what she saw.

I forgot.

Let it drift

into the blur of nights

I barely survived.

Then came the afternoon

head pounding,

mouth dry,

light too bright

for the man I was.

I scrolled through our texts

looking for distraction,

and found the vow

I didn’t remember making.

She never reminded me.

Never held it over me.

But she held me to it

with quiet faith.

Because my word is my bond.

And I said I’d be better.

So I am.

Now I keep a pen in my room,

not to write relapse,

but to remind myself

that I could’ve folded,

but I didn’t.

She may never know

how her belief became my blueprint,

how her silence became my scripture.

But I know.

And I honor it.

Not because I owe her.

But because I owe me

the chance to be

the kind of man

who remembers the headache,

the light,

the vow

You were small when I began

whispering truths into your bones

your word is your bond,

and without it,

you’re just noise in the wind.

But with it,

you’re a force.

I never asked you to carry me.

I only asked you to see me.

To look at the path I carved

through silence and survival

and say,

“I’ll go further than that.”

You are not my shadow.

You are my sunrise.

I’ve closed my heart before

tight as a fist,

quiet as a locked room.

But I never shut it down forever.

And I pray you won’t either.

Guard it, yes.

But let it bloom when it’s ready.

I’ve seen you

your joy, your fire, your hunger to grow.

You are the best thing I’ve ever helped shape.

Not because you remind me of myself,

but because you remind me

what’s possible beyond me.

So take this legacy

not as a weight,

but as a compass.

Not as a script,

but as a spark.

Be honest.

Be brave.

Be someone I’d be proud to know.

And when the world tries to bend you,

remember:

your word is your bond.

Your heart is your compass.

And your brother

is watching the stars

I don’t remember the year

the light went out.

A seizure took the past,

left me with blank pages

and blood in the margins.

But the trauma stayed.

It carved itself into my ribs,

a language I never asked to learn.

I remember the machine,

the rope,

the road,

the blade.

I remember feeling unclean,

like my body had been rewritten

without my consent.

Like freedom was a story

I no longer belonged to.

I hit bricks

to feel something louder than shame.

To trade numbness for proof.

To remind myself

I was still here.

I became quiet.

Not peaceful just hidden.

Trust felt like a trick.

Love felt like a lie.

I stopped writing.

Stopped remembering.

Stopped letting anyone close.

Then grief cracked me open.

I wrote again.

It burned.

So I stopped.

Then something shifted.

Not erased just softened.

A hand reached out,

not to hold me,

but to walk beside me.

Now I write

because silence is heavy.

Because the ghosts need names

even if I don’t speak them aloud.

Because rest only comes

after truth.

This is my trauma.

Not my identity

but my origin.

Not my cage

but my evidence.

I’m not asking for pity.