recognizing the voiceless

28/5/26

Because I'm human.

Human. That's funny. Being human means being allowed mistakes, to try and fail or succeed, to write in margins,

to think, to feel and live.

Maybe as much as I am impulsive, I desire control of every situation and outcome to feel good.

But that should not take over my life. Things can go bad or how I didn't want to - simply because. Trying to constantly find deeper meaning between lines that dont exist, it exhausts me. Because no one will know me in the depth as me.

For once I do not want to think

I do not want to predict the future

Dont want to make sure,

that everything is perfect

Everytime I go out

I do not want to doubt,

about the eyes that follow me

And everytime I come home

I do not want to be alone,

I want to be with him

Where I can finally shut down

Where the silence is not a punishment

Where I'm enough

Where I do not need to think

Where everything clicks

Where all we have is silence

Words made before words did rhyme,

Lessons before blessed time,

Some stories survive the test,

Persisting longer than the rest,

Yet we mock them now as weak,

And those that love them we call meek,

As if our hate could make us more,

Harden our so soft core,

Oh how grand the irony,

I pass the time with fantastical words.

Numb my mind in a fiction far away.

Drowning myself with words and stories.

The window is covered up but it can't drown out the birds or the shame they draw.

The ache in my head longs to rest along its walls but I do not tire.

I itch and I rot unlit until morning.

And then seek to be clean.

The horrible need to be new takes me.

I bask in rich oils and fragrance,

I remove my cross my ring, freeing myself of the feeling on my skin.

Did you stay awake all night? She hisses

She couldn't understand.

I retreat into the watery outdoors to see the sky.

I smell the wet wood and grass.

I watch a deer.

Say a prayer

I have lost my voice. I have thought this often before, but never has it felt as final as it does now.

I can no longer commit either of my languages ​​to paper. Usually, whenever I lost my connection to one language, the other was there to take its place. Now, there is nothing left. Perhaps it was because my critical eye grew ever sharper—because I had to admit to myself that almost everything I write sounds too generic, too inauthentic.

But that should never have stopped me from picking up a pen. For writing has always been a reflex—a need that simply had to be satisfied.

I believe it still is;

but why should I do something that only fuels my self-doubt and heightens my frustration?

Perhaps I haven’t lost my voice at all.

I drove it away with perfectionism—let it merge with that obsession until using it became too painful to bear.

I miss writing, yet at the same time, I hate what it now triggers within me.

I was blown away.

Then, this weekend, while she was sitting right next to me, she wrote this poem. I was blown away. In someways it feels like something I would write. She’s nine.

I’ll die knowing that my kids will take a piece of me with them, but also, they’ve given my life definition.

Wild as horses on the range,

He had iron and grit,

His work was always lit,

& he had a fire flowing through

his veins

I wonder if all this was meant to be.

If this feeling was meant to fade, why does it grow stronger every day?

Even when uncertainty lingers,

The urge to be in your arms pulls me like a restless river.

My heart dreams beyond reality,

while my mind whispers over my heart’s quiet truth.

And as I learn I must be true to myself,

I still return to the same question,

was this ever meant to be?

What if this love is only illusion?

I can't get hold of what I feel.

How is it that I long for only you,

And why does holding you feel so real?

And if this is only a fragile dream,

why does it steady my trembling soul?

Perhaps not every truth is certain

perhaps some loves are felt

Love in the heart is as a nightingale That sings in a green wood; And none can pass unheeding there, nor fail Of impulses of good.

Though cruel brief be Love’s bright hour of song, Yet let him sing his fill! For other hearts the echoes shall prolong When Love’s own voice is still.

A simple phrase and rule by which i abide.

To love is to let love, is a simple way to say that

To feel, give, and experience love yourself,

You must let others feel, give, and experience love themselves.

Whether its with you, or without.

Whether it concerns you or not.

No matter gender, race, occupation, or class.

You dont dismiss or forbid their love,

Less you never feel loved yourself.

And it goes without say that to love and let love,

you cannot dismiss love that is not between you and a lover.

For the love from a friend is just a real,

And twice as strong.

As a love born in romance.

Love knows no limits, and has no bounds.

To when we feel it, and when its true.

"To love is to let love" says those who know love is wherever we let it happen.

And "to live is to let live" a phrase that is a truth we often refute.

But what we neglect is that we cant live a life where we are happy,

If we spend are lives telling the people around us.

Strangers and friends,

Children and people who dont know who they are.

That they cant chose who they are.

That theres something wrong if they try to show it.

You cannot live your life if you spend it policing and preaching

A "right" way to live.

You cannot live your life is you spend it shaming and hurting

Others who are living the "wrong" way.

There are rights and wrongs in your actions and lives,

But there is no wrong or right way to live,

In a world where roles are assigned the moment you leave the womb.

Where roles are assigned by abratrary traits that you dont chose.

You cannot live your life if you spend it in a way that benefits no one.

Not you nor others.

So to live,

you must let live,

and to love

Boredom for boredom, what is there to do? Along the road, the way of cursive script opens the gates of a hundred other ways. A vegetable soul there is to grasp

the way the wind would do it with the wings of butterflies. Upon the canal bridge if I turn there's a heart that keeps on beating with pollens and with algae. The dry crowns

are tired of protesting; they no longer know where they could possibly find rest… and what if I'm the one who's getting it wrong? And what if it were just the weariness of idling,

envious of natural idleness? A rhymebook made of insects, four circular poses… have the muses changed their trade? Or have they too grown tired

of the same season? But water flows beneath the green of time - through some orange hours and then finally black. Only a slight headache accompanies

the passive creation of time. In front and back the road, the curtain blurs itself into a haze of tedious intents. A spectator who waits upon a cloud

to spread itself across the immaterial meadow of whispers and of dreams - not laws. I barely hold up under the sonnet craft of Petrarch - I have cut away the stations

My love is like a bear in hibernation

Small and cuddly while sleeping

Will hold you with ferocity

But when she wakes up

She's more scared of you than of her own heart

She doesn't know where to start

So she goes back to hibernation

Before she can show you her art

My love is like a lemon shark

Wanting to swim with everyone

But getting jealous when someone doesn't swim with her

Butting her head against your air tank

Not knowing it is how you need to breathe

She is impulsive

But she will bring you to shore when you need

My love is like buried treasure, beautiful when you find it

But when the age of it is shown

Every break in filigree

Every crack In age

Every journal page tattered like a garnished wage

My love is like a gemstone

Faceted and cut

The table wide enough to host others

When the centre is not

Lopsided and heavy it could never fit a ring

But I've worked on it with the hammer of my heartbeat

The pounding of my chest

Bringing the brilliance of the tanzanite to the surface

The sunshine of the darkness

My love is like a fox in the snow

Helping the hunters and gathered who don't know where to go

Making sure they are warm and the rodents don't bite at your feet

But it feels so extinct the winter has no grey to adorn the white sheets

A fox a bear a shark a stone

I feel the weight of this poem in my bones

To grow like an ent and love with all of my limbs

To exist like a Hobbit and follow our whims

To be a part of each other's universe is such a gift

To grow up together like two lilies who eventually won't be able to be apart

'too fast' doesn't exist

Slowing down is a part of racing a tire would blow out if it hadn't been changed

Real love baby is finally a thing I've obtained

I feel it like fox fur, like a tumbled Stone, like diving in the sea with a lemon shark, real love doesn't demand I hibernate anymore.

It doesn't make me crazy

It doesn't make me scared

than this would've been beautiful

given just a little more

more time more attention more.

could be still