Poems Made By Fools Like Me

The bed’s too cold, the sheets don’t hold, The story’s done, the truth is told. I’m left with echoes, sharp and thin, Of a life I can’t get back within.

without you.

What if I let myself disappear? not enough for anyone to ask, but enough that I don’t have to keep pretending?

And maybe rest is not defeat, Nor stepping off the endless beat, But learning gently, day by day, That living isn’t just the pay.

Before it slips through the cracks?

If fools write mindless poems like this Where are the poems that are made in bliss? Are those poems lost at sea? Or is it kept and torn freely? From a poet that's scorned, And inevitably mourned. Did he or she lose their mind? If then, what did they eventually find? Have they found comfort or thoughts that triggers? Or sadness that truly and endlessly lingers? Through tears and fears and battles won, I hope they find a solid one A solid reason to live and heave– And find in their written words, a reprieve. Each and every word is the key, To poems that are made by fools like me.

Tears stain the keys of my laptop, My body reacts to every disrespect that I swallowed whole Deactivating... Ruminating... No more stooping low, Low enough to bend and break my bones, Pleasing wolves cloaked in sapphire. My heart closes up, With each clickity clack, I feel a shiver run down my spine A voice whispers, "No more feeding on crumbs mistaken for feasts." "You've been kind enough." "Patient enough." "Soft enough..." "Foolish enough..." "...To bleed for hands that never held themselves accountable..." "You've translated your love  too many times in languages that you don't even speak..." "They don't get it, so stop." So I preserved myself inside an unbreakable glass jar, Where no one can use me or wring me dry. If anyone opens the lid, I'll let God close it again. Not because I've become distrustful, But I learned the hard way—the hardest, To ever let someone in... only to watch me fall apart. Love is beautiful, yes, But not to the point, Where I have to ruin myself for others' entertainment. I've been there, And I'm never going back. I see myself changing. Keeping the lid of this jar tight, And not hoping for a savior, As it turns out I always save myself, Even when I'm with self-proclaimed saviors.

Today, the 29th of December, 2025. You were supposed to be here with me and my family. Giving yourself a chance to get to know them. To know the people who made me who I am. But you made your choice in every “let’s see” whenever I invited you to a gathering. Your schedule was always more important than mine. You only saw me when it was convenient for you. Now I’m gone. And I know you’ll feel the absence of my warmth. You’ll feel the shift, that I’m no longer the pursuer. Since you’re very spiritual, as you say, you’ll feel it. And that shift will create a hole in your life that nothing can fill. No bike rides. No amount of positivity. Nada. You’ll start asking questions, the same ones that lived in my mind when I overthought. Was I too distant? Was I too much? And when you finally see me with someone else, someone who truly treats me right, gives me princess treatment, and reassures me that I’m the only one... you’ll break down and wish that it was still you.

December 28, 2025 When you said thank you Thank you for the good memories And the bad experiences I was shattered That was the moment I realized That we were over I wanted you to chase after me I wanted you to care I wanted you to tell me That you would never give up on me Because although our values don’t align Although many would walk away I have the heart To fight for you I just want to know That someone will fight for me That someone has the guts This time to say, “I choose you, despite the circumstances, Despite your flaws, In spite of your unpredictability.” But that only happens in movies, Don’t they? I was always meant not to be chosen Not to be fought for I just want one person to tell me, “You’re worth all the hurt, All the pain, Because I love you.” I only want someone who will love me Loudly, Publicly, And without shame. I long for someone To be transparent, To take me seriously, And irrevocably.

December 27, 2025 Cutting the red string was hard. Not because you were kind— but because I stayed. I spoke. You dismissed. Over and over. You never took me seriously. I never met your parents. Never met your sister. I never met you. Over ten months, and you still didn’t listen. Didn’t act. Didn’t choose. Didn’t name me as anything that mattered. You kept me vague. Optional. Unclaimed. When I ended it, you stayed light. Positive. Untouched. So don’t mistake that for strength. I cut the red string because carrying it alone was killing me. And if that makes me the one who bleeds— so be it.

December 9, 2025 I hope one day That the mental choir Becomes voiceless As they try to rule my life Indeed, it's a strife "How many times do you hear them?" My shrink always asks Every damn second I answer her fast All the congruency disappears Whenever they're present But no matter, I don't relent Did I manifest them? Maybe, maybe not But I pray to Dear God For them to totally fade To the void They belong there Not in the present timeline Someday They won't be surviving I'll wait Until that day comes I'll continue on striving

May 5, 2025 She’s the kind of girl who calls the shots. She directs. She edits. She dreams in wide frames. Sometimes I think about telling her— Not in a loud way, but like a scene you don’t forget. A quiet confession caught in golden light. Would it have mattered? Would I have stood a chance, next to all the men probably swooning, just as fast, just as breathless? If I were someone else— reborn, rewritten, even made different— I’d still find her. Still get on one knee, still ask her, no matter the body, time, or world. Because every time she walks in, she’s cinematic. The kind of girl stars gather around. And in my head, she’s the ending I always root for. I’d give her something no one else offered: ease. safety. the feeling of being chosen without her having to fight for it. I’d never claim to deserve her. But I’d show up, every day, loyal. certain. hers. No one else. Just her. Always her. —Maybe not this lifetime… But still hers in every version of me.

People say I have to lower my standards. They say I'm too much, too picky, too guarded. But I did once… and I look at my Dad— How can I lower it When he set it that high? He didn’t just tell me I mattered—he showed me. He became the first man To work for my trust back again, Not with grand gestures, But with quiet, consistent care. Like saying, "I want to be worthy of your smile," and meaning every word. He’s the first man To ever treat me Like I deserve the world— Not because I had to earn it, Not because I had to beg for it, But because I exist. Like any other person. Like I belong. Like being respected wasn't a reward, But a right. He’s imperfect, yes— Human and flawed in ways only I know. But he’s the first man To ever make me feel Cherished and respected Without confusing it for control, Without asking me to shrink, Without making me question my worth . So no— I can’t lower my standards. Because he raised them, By showing me what it looks like When love walks in integrity.

May 20, 2025 Do men even know what it feels like to never be chosen first? To show up for someone in silence, only to be met with absence. I’m not asking for daily texts, not even daily I love yous. I’ve let go of expectations because they were used against me— used to call me needy, used to call me too much. I’ve softened myself, smoothed my edges, held my tongue, just to not be that woman again. But every time he says, “I’ll try,” I watch the hope in me run dry. I still cry— I still die, while wide awake. How many more times do I shrink myself just to fit into someone’s maybe? I only want one person now. No one else. I shouted in the empty void, Who must I convince for it to finally be me? It’s tiring. They say I focus too much on the negative. But is it negative if it’s just the truth? If I’ve given light and only received shadows? If I’ve poured love and only felt lack? After all the healing I’ve done, why do I still feel disposable? Like I’m convenient, but never permanent. I’ve worked hard on myself. Not just for love— for me. But still, I wonder, is self-worth ever enough when the world keeps handing you less? They say the right man will treat a woman right. Then why do so many men not know how to handle a woman who’s done the work, who knows what she brings, who doesn’t settle for crumbs? Aren’t they ashamed? Men today want to be chased, to be courted, to be desired— but never required to show up. When did the roles reverse? Because if I were a man, I wouldn’t let my woman carry the weight. I wouldn’t let her overthink her place in my life. If she only wanted me, I’d prove she was the only one— not with empty words, but with presence, with peace, with effort. If I were a man, I'd never let her wonder where she stands. I’d hold her hand even when she’s silent, and make sure she never had to beg for reassurance. Because if a woman like her still chooses me after all the pain she's seen— I’d count that as grace. And I’d never waste it.

They treat healing like a race with a finish line. But even when I wear the smile, they don’t see the battle raging quietly beneath my skin.

You never learned the art.

Cindy was right. The warmest hearts are worn and tired, from lifting others uninspired. We don’t burn out from giving all— we burn from never being called.