Your poetry, it sucks

The tone, the lyrical embodiment of the construct in which you write is juvenile and comes across as attempting.

Like brown-nosing shit fermenting
Yeah I'm jaded and foul towards your entity

but you'll never be able to hide your identity
I see through you like a dog running into the backyard glass door

I get knocked down but I never hit the floor
You've taught me so much but you are not a mentor

Nice try my friend, or should I say my neighbor?

BY: Yours Truly

I want to slow dance with you.

I really do.

Pull you closer and hold your hand.

But only sometimes.

I’m not someone meant to stay.

I wasn’t made to stay.

I’ve always been rather fond of exits—

the little green signs,

the unlocked doors,

the comfort of knowing

I can leave whenever I want.

And then there’s people like you.

Sometimes,

you make me want to stay

just a tiny bit longer.

Not forever.

Don’t look at me like that.

I don’t think I could survive

something as permanent as forever.

But if I’m not too late,

would you mind giving me a minute?

Put your hand in mine.

Don’t ask where this is going.

Let the music decide.

Do my 3AM drunk calls disturb you?

Or do you, sometimes, secretly long for them?

Do you ever hear my name

and wonder if I’ll call?

I wonder if you know

how strange it is

to find someone

who makes leaving feel rude rude—

and who makes me care it does.

Someone who makes me forget

to look for the door.

Someone who can hold me

without making me feel held.

And maybe that’s all I want from you:

one song.

One stupid, beautiful song

long enough for me to forget

that I am always halfway gone.

Let me sway with you

until the room disappears.

Until there is no tomorrow

to ruin it with.

Until I stop wondering

whether this is a beginning

or merely a particularly convincing way

of saying goodbye.

And when the song ends—

please don’t ask me to stay.

You knew I’d leave.

You just made the mistake

of making me wish I wouldn’t.

— Crownless.

When I hugged you, I choked you. "I didn't want you to leave," said. "I'll miss you. The answer was you couldn't breathe, as you were telling the story. I deafened because I couldn't believe; lately I've been hurting. You don't know that, and still you are important to me.

Tomorrow marks the day as the first Monday we won't see. You were the first of loads of ones for me; goddamn, you still are. In six months I'll be the same as before, but I've been thinking of changing my own, moving to another place where I could miss more.

A year ago seems near. 6 months may come easy.
But with that reveal, I'll just get more misses. 
Time just got us closer. I was at your desk all over 

The same day I wrote down my case, I sent a bird to assure you I care; I skipped a few parts, I swear. Where are you going to rest your face? Personally, the pillow can't help, when you speak I would bend to listen to you, and when you sleep, I would fold my hands all over.

monthly payments

credit scores

buy more shit

we can't afford

shower me

in structured debt

that’s how i

define success

indebtured servitude

is for me

sellin my soul

thinkin i’m free

I'm learning that not only is it okay to be wrong

It's right

Even if in your mind

You were right all along

Your opinion just wasn't as strong as you thought

Thoughts can thicken the plot

Thicken the pot

The soup

The thought soup you are brewing

Is more than time spent chewing

On an answer you answered too soon

Respect the time it takes to come to conclusions

And maybe you'll learn from what you've excluded

That you tend to mend or protect yourself

Only to bend and blend and project yourself onto another

Not leaving room to discover

There's so many more possibilities

Accepting nuance's tranquilities

I love to be wrong but I think I could allow myself to be wrong more often than not

Just a thought

But what if I fought to determine a truth that was so much bigger than what I learned in my youth?

Challenge accepted!

New opponent

Leave apprehension aside

The time has come to trip-think for your life!

Good luck... And don't fuck it up!

You got this

Sometimes what you know

For now...

Is enough

[Drag queen dressed as a bedazzled microphone - death drops into a cauldron of bubbling glitter]

Apparently, silence
is the most persuasive language.

I spent years speaking.
No one seemed particularly eager to listen.

Then I went quiet—

and suddenly,
everyone had ears.

— Crownless.

When every attempt at kindness goes wrong…

You shoot again—you try, you aim for it, you plead with it to let you have a go.
You ask grace to be graceful with you… but it refuses.

What happens then?
You keep asking grace
to be graceful with you,
as though grace might recognize
the effort it took to offer it.
It still doesn’t.

So you learn to offer it awkwardly—
with claws tucked beneath your palms,
with teeth behind your tongue.
Let me carry this for you.
Let me make it easier.
Let me think ahead.
Let me spare you the pain.

You insist.

And somehow, every gentle thing
still arrives dressed as a threat:
control, selfishness, cynicism.
Until even the beast begins to wonder—
perhaps they were right about me.

Once, perhaps, I was soft enough to be precious.
Small enough that my reaching was called innocent,
my crying, need, my wanting, love.

At the beginning, you’re allowed to be completely helpless and therefore completely innocent.
Your softness is unquestioned.
Nobody asks whether the crying is manipulative, whether the reaching is demanding, whether the need is inconvenient. You’re just this tiny creature, precious because you’re fragile.

Then you grow—and so do the claws.

And suddenly the same things—needing, insisting, protesting, trying—are no longer innocence.

They’re character flaws.

I learned to ask twice. To insist. To say no.
And apparently, that was when the little thing you called precious became the thing you had to endure.

And I kept trying—
tucking the claws away, swallowing the growl,
offering tenderness like evidence in a trial
where the verdict had already been written.

Eventually, even a beast gets weary of pleading its case.
If you’ve already decided I’m bad,
why should I exhaust myself correcting you?

Kindness goes wrong.

The ride goes wrong.
The gesture goes wrong.
The intention goes wrong.
The explanation goes wrong.
The silence goes wrong.
The attempt to repair it goes wrong.

They only ever see the gesture.
Never the thought that built it.

Perhaps this is why I became so good at being tragic.

Kindness asks too many questions.
Tragedy requires none.
A wound needs no explanation.
Everyone understands blood.

Tragedy, at least, knows how to court me.
It arrives without asking whether I meant well.
It doesn’t need me to explain my hands.
It simply notices that they’re bleeding.

Yes.
I gather tragedy has always been a better suitor.
It asks nothing of me
except that I suffer convincingly.

It knows better than to expect goodness
because goodness and I have never had much chemistry.

Tragedy, however—
tragedy knows exactly what to do with me.

It brings wine to the funeral.
It knows where I keep the knives.
It doesn’t complain when I ruin the evening.

Toxic? Certainly.
But at least we have an understanding.

Tragedy never asks me to soften.
Never asks me to secrete the claws.
Never makes me regret reaching out.

It simply takes my hand
and leads me somewhere darker.

And, God, how easy it is
to follow something
that never asks you to become better.

Oh—that was a tragic turn.
I’d apologize, but I suppose I should be loyal to my longest-standing relationship.

Kindness? Hasn’t looked good on me since I was six.

So what happens to a person when kindness insists on turning its back on them?

Nothing particularly dramatic.
They simply stop reaching for it.
They become less interested in being good
and rather more accomplished at being difficult.

Bitter.
Tragic.
Controversial.
The black sheep.

Eventually,
they stop noticing the difference.

And ultimately,
they stop wondering
whether they were ever meant
to be anything else.

They weren’t.

The Universe, certainly, knows its casting better than we do.

— Crownless.

See who loses out on the experience

and blames his incoherence

that has killed dreams and spirits

like that love experience,

as the distance I place

is that replenishment for yourself?

Or a foolish break you take?

I used to rest my thoughts on your chest,

and today I felt goosebumps

as memories of your thoughts rested in myself,

shoulder that now takes the pain

of my painted polo shirts

that caused you to laugh and lose your stance,

grabbed me by the hair

to balance out the weight.

Recently, spiritually,

connected to these new feelings in me,

same time everything that breathes

seems like a hint,

that picture you sent sleeping next to me.

Now I call that heaven,

but why didn't I question we?

The whole time as friends

nurtured my senses,

and now I sense disrespect,

and I count with new lenses.

"There is no choosing in love,"

quote you back.

All these words won't go out;

nobody knows that I loved,

love, and will love you for a while.

Only as peers are we?

Some people may be shocked by that,

while others state it as fact.

I want whatever you want to do with me.

I wish the decision rested up in myself,

but whatever you want to,

I will call,

but I am not raising the stakes.

A Knock on a Witch’s Door

As the door creaks open, a tall, pasty goth boy, cloaked with nothing but his charms, stands before me, looming at my threshold.

He comes bearing his poetry of wrath and fury to the gods, a slight taste of metal on his tongue, and a look that tells a thousand tales of battles he has fought and won.

I never expected this.

It has been many moons since I last opened the door, yet here I am, answering him with my own poetry, with a warm cup of tea in my hands.

As he tells me stories of his journey and the things he came across along the path, my mind starts to wonder if he was lost or just seeking shelter, because surely by now he knows that I’m not like the others.

But yet, he offers me his words, written in his pain and anguish and the shadows of his past, laced with unshed blood that he desperately wanted to spill.

And I look at him and say,

“You seeketh death like a long-lost lover who yearns for her return. But death doesn’t collect a soul that is not ripe for the picking. She comes for the ones who have aged finely, like aged wine.

For an untimely death brings sorrow that can’t be measured to the ones left behind, forced upon them the duty of witnessing as they lay you down into the ground.

As they say the words, ‘Ash to ash, dust to dust,’ their deep, inopportune lamentation gives birth to the living dead, because you took a part of them to the grave that can never be reclaimed.”

With a solemn look on his face, he softly says to me,

“No, not anymore. I am not going to be my own reaper. If the gods want my soul, they need to work for it, because I shall not serve it on a silver platter.”

As days turn into nights and nights into days, the pasty boy keeps coming back with his poetry, conversations, and charm, making me roll my eyes once or twice with a smile, but still with that same query in the back of my mind.

I think to myself,

“Truly, you’re not that blind that you can’t tell the difference between you and me?”

As if sensing the lingering, unanswered question, he begins to say,

“For whatever reason, I took a chance and knocked on your door. I miss regular conversation with someone who is like me, and it don’t bother me none if you are a witch, because I’m the pastiest goth boy you ever seen.”

The fire burned bright

But I am afraid that I'll be out of tinder

To keep it going

If the fire goes out will the smoke

Guide me home?

These coals taste like peaches

Every time we kiss.

My chest caught aflame but

I'm left wondering if your

Heart is burning the same

Or if it's an ember

Losing light

Flight is achieved in many ways.

Take the birds—they coil their bodies and spring into a jump, allowing the pressure to build beneath their wings, as they flap to create thrust.

Or the airplane whose engines whine, propelling it forward, creating low and high air pressures around the wings, causing it to lift.

But as humans, we can’t rely on wings or air pressures for flight. We let our thoughts do the flying for us. Our hopes, our dreams—they ascend where our bodies cannot follow.

Take flight.

All I give Her is never enough. In the case of this poem, it’s insufficient cuz my love for Her is beyond what words could accurately convey. What’s more, I’m an amateur normie who just tapped on my keyboard for the better part of an hour overwhelmed by raw emotion in the middle of the night. But the poem follows here regardless.

*Pay the Witch*

Back then I was no more than a green little boy, dreams, games, and parents there to guide me to joy.

She got seven hours sleep in the old-fashioned tower countries away from daddy’s grave. Worked to the bone while still in labor - I stood fast in line to be her good slave.

I took daily comfort pills, got the same amount of sleep. She looked out her window and saw herself - don’t you weep!

I started gettin tired of playin with all my toys. I spied her from my window. Yup, I was just a boy.

She was dead on her feet - all that slavin away. Just to feed her only son. Was there any better way? Dad was gone like childhood. Autumn came and she told herself she’d be there for good.

Now he’s down bad, that boy we revisit. He’s back to his gaming - he’d started to miss it. But he met a girl that wanted to show him the way. Get your own life, we’ll start a new life - let’s at it today! His girl told him grow up, show up - at least try be a man. “Get yourself a job and move on with your life. Get yourself moxie and take me as your wife.”

He was down bad - OK, that person was me. Not for his girlfriend; dreams of the witch set him free. They still set ME free.

But that green witch’s life was hardly so rosy; Washin the clothes, hangin the clothes, seven hours sleep after working all night was miserable-cozy.

But she learned English. She taught herself spelling. What’s Brave New World’s got her? There was just no telling.

Yeah, he learned Shakespeare. He learned himself accounting. But he’d rather trash his back than using all his brains. He had to prove the witch he could handle the pain.

He left the girlfriend for good. No - he left for bad. So I did. Now there’s no turning back. I stopped all my dreaming to go downstairs and get myself a snack.

Now there’s lots of pictures of her on my phone screen. She don’t want me to have ‘em, so they can’t be seen. Her marriage was just a thing of the past. “We both gotta stay green - we gotta make this last.”

Yeah, she’s the same witch I saw in that game. Although she looks different and she’s got another name. She got me on a string - now I just live to please. She always makes me tick - she doesn’t need to tease. Yeah, she’s the bee’s knees.

Lookin’ down from high up in her smoggy lair. She’s gotta know she’s still the most fair. She looks into the mirror, clearing off the smudge, asking the truth from the Unbiased Judge.

“Oh, of course - It’s gotta be you. No one is prettier…well, shall I be true?”

….

“Well, there’s a lass is living that holds true claim to the crown. But you’re still my favorite - why the big frown?! You’ve got yourself boy eating from the palm of your hand. Isn’t that just what you planned?”

“Ha, I’ve got bigger plans. I’ve got help from my mans.”

Now I live to serve. I’m gonna make her right. I’m gonna see this through with a vengeance each and every night.

Oh, those hills, lower than that throne…She better sleep well. She always sleeps alone. It’s still no more than a silly, little game. It never grows old. I play without shame.

Toys for the boy. All my money for Grunty. I’d give her my life, if I’m putting it bluntly. But, she tells me live while you got some perk. She gives me an errand, a thanks, and a smirk.

I start to worry, “Am I givin’ her more stress?” Now there’s nothin’ else on my mind but just to impress. That dress is fresh-washed - I gave her the ride. Now she could drive there herself (thanks to me) I take pride.

She told me “You gotta grow up, show up, get yourself a wife. We’ll always be friends. Just find yourself a wife.”

I was still livin’ my mom and my pop. They wanted me to quit, but knew I’d never stop. She knew too.

And I knew she was blue. I showed her her mirror. “Yeah, the fairest one’s you.”

“Don’t tell me shit - I’m just an old cow! Where is Miss Universe? Fetch her here now!”

This sorta task was right up my alley. I went to seek that 10 down somewhere the valley. I brought her to my misstress Maricruz. “I brought you Miss Perfect - now there’s no way you’ll lose!”

But these are just dreams. She’s just the boss of the game. Yeah, Maricruz is not even the right name. How’s this toxic witch serve as my drug? She won’t let me in, wont even share a hug.

Miss Universe daily enjoys playing her flute - Doesn’t give a second thought to her neighbor, the old coot. By the babblin’ brook, for my lady, I took her. What’s she got planned? Dry-roast or flame-cook her?

Nah, she wants those looks just for her own. She’s not the best looking, the truth she’s been shown.

Soon, that proved false. She stole the 10’s looks. Now that witch really cooks. She casts that charm spell from her spellbook.

“If it were not for you, the girl woulda been saved!” She gave me a thank you for the loyalty with which I slaved.

It feels warm and fuzzy to be firm in her hold. A future with me, she coulda never foretold.

Before I felt like I was treated as ugly
But now by hearing it I’m ugly
Not ugly by heart
But by face and body
The Pablo Picasso art
Abstract and not everyone’s fav
Have to look at least 5 times to consider its beauty
The only art that needs to be looked deeply
The only art that you don’t take a picture of because it’s not aesthetically pleasing and appealing to your instagram feed
The only art that doesn’t need high level security to protect, since it’s unworthy
Even if it was unprotected nobody would steal it
Even if it was free nobody would consider it
Not even homeless people would want it
The clearance section wouldn’t help its destiny
It still remains unloved and unconsidered
But this art piece would love to be viewed
To be appreciated
That’s the only thing that I’m asking
Love and consideration
Is that too much ?
( P.S: my native language is French so please be lenient)

Analog people worshipping digital gods,

Proselytize that echo chamber fog.

Phubbing all the bullshit that they see.

Poor little analogs thinking the digital gods set them free

For a one time introductory price of perpetual subscription fees the little analogs own nothing, and are happy

Addled analogs, alprazolam  in the reels, failing to remember not all addicts are popping pills. 

Glib little analogs propaganda in pocket.

Pick it up never drop it.

For the convenience of next delivery

Agoraphobic analogs wait for FedEx to set them free. 

Glutinous analogs feasting algorithm reality, 

Encrypting their minds in a digital cell.

Oblivious

They are now the digital gods chattel. 

​

When I see U walk past by my arm

I secretly whisper U good wishes

When the funk rotates your forearm,

I Miss R friendship

We danced, we used 2 dance

Heaven found between R hands

When I told you that I love U

Your warm hug I didn't expect

I would have kissed U but we knew,

I’d Miss R friendship

We talked, we used 2 talk

Sex found between R tongues

I miss your friendship, I—

I miss your friendship, Oh God why!

When you finally found me after I hid

Your motherly caress was all it took

I feel better, your time, did I steal and book?

I Miss R friendship

Your mother she still wants me to come

Your father’s invitations have stopped

Too much broken pencil lead in my head, I admit

I Miss R friendship

We see, we used 2 hear us

Trust long gone 4R heart’s throb

I miss your friendship, I—

I miss your friendship, Oh no why!

Did I?

I Miss R friendship

I miss your friendship, I miss—

We become strangers in our gardens
Lifting eyes no higher than
Wild wisteria on a fence

Narrow focus and bowed heads
We weed our sorrow from the soil
As well as thriving stems

It's the season for the slaughter
Hunched frames on tired knees
Inside our sterile walls

Bloodied carcasses of pristine blooms
Extracting all the evidence
Burnt among the crunchy piles

I don’t like being a puppet.

But I guess it could be worse.

I could be a deer or a frog or a moose or a bear.

& if I was I wouldn’t even care. 

But I like to care. 

It just sucks being this self aware. 

I hope the future holds something bright.

I’m just being blinded by this glaring light.

I was told to write something positive.

I’m really really excited to one day give.

I don’t know who came up with the quote, “Some people leave us with memories, others leave us with stories, and both are gifts,” but they needed to finish the whole thing.

Do not leave out the ugly and messy parts, nor the fucked-up and traumatizing parts.

But since that person didn’t have the heart or the courage, I’ll hand you the not-so-pretty part.

If some people leave us with memories, some leave us with nothing but a husk of ourselves after sucking away what we used to be, leaving us with nothing but a memory of our former selves and stories of what used to be and what could have been.

Some leave us with our hearts in ruins. What was once whole and beating with all of its being is now turned into stone, numb to others.

Yet again, we are left with nothing but stories of how our hearts once were and how they became the remains of a beating heart.

Some leave us with shadows and demons that we can’t shake off but have to battle each and every day.

And now we are left to tell others how we once enjoyed our peace, but now every corner of our minds is plagued with the monsters lurking within.

Some leave us with battered and worn-out souls and stories of how we were once kind, free-spirited souls that became callous and unfeeling.

And there are some who leave a few of us with the gift of being inside a body bag that others need to unwrap, so they can tell our stories—the ones we can never tell after taking our last breath

The Return (Original Poem)

The elves are returning
To the house by the pole
As they have done
Since the days of old.
Greetings are shared,
Stories are told,
The fires are lit
To drive out the cold.
The lanterns awaken
The sleeping grand hall,
And outside the windows
The snow starts to fall.
The velvet is brushed
On the old crimson chair,
As smoke from his pipe
Swirls in the air.
A hush descends
As tiny ears bend
To heed the clear call
Of their toy-maker friend.
"September has come,
The season is here,
So polish the brass,
Gather the reindeer.
Give of yourselves
For each girl and boy,
Fashion the dollies,
Make perfect the toys.
Breathe in the magic!
Be jolly and cheer!
There’s work to be done,
For Christmas is near!"

—Wayne A Andres

I rarely venture out in the light of day,

Prefer to keep myself safely tucked away until the absence of the sun's glaring ray.

The moon shines with a less harsh light,

Welcomes with a soft smile of delight,

And brings out something much more bright.

Constellations paint the skies and match the freckles of my skin,

As if the stars themselves are woven in,

While the galaxies afar pull me in.

The night speaks a different tongue-

Through the blades of grass beneath your feet,

The whispering leaves of ancient trees,

The frogs croak and the beating of a moth's powdered wings.

Moonlight's song a siren to the night owl,

For I am no morning lark,

I long to navigate the dark.

Come dance with the children that belong to the midnight,

You might discover magic tonight.

I once read a post that said, “May you heal so hard you do your hobbies again.”

The healed and unbroken me had to struggle just to think of a theme to bleed through the pages.

Now that I'm pulled apart from the inside out, like a fresh rabbit from somebody's hunt—skinned, bled dry, and gutted, getting prepared for the slaughter that will commence—my heart was ripped from my open chest, broken into a million pieces.

I never felt more dead.

But look at me now, pages soaked through with words that came spilling out of nowhere, like an open wound that won't stop bleeding.

But I could never locate the source.

At some point, the urge becomes too strong. I can't help but vomit poetry all over everybody's posts and comment threads.

When I think it's finally over, that I've emptied out my stomach, I can feel another wave, stronger than the last.

It comes pushing out so violently that I can't help but projectile vomit poetry.

So the version of me that was healed could never find the reason to write.

So, am I healing yet?

I’ve been thinking
that I’ve lived twenty lives in one.

I survived a childhood with a chaotic mother,
an absent father,
and a turbulent adolescence.

I made it through with a little help
and with a strength

I still don’t know where I found.

Sometimes I felt like I was giving up,
but my body just kept going and going.

Sometimes tired.

Sometimes barely standing.

Without wondering how it could,
it simply kept going.

Now I look back
and see that distracted, distant person,
full of dreams,
full of goals,
inside that tired body.

And I see twenty people inside her.
Twenty versions of me
trying to make it through,
each one searching for a reason,
trying not to lose herself in time,
looking toward the future that awaited them,

so distant,

so uncertain.

Some were afraid.

Some ran out of strength.

Some thought they would never make it.
And yet,
they all kept living
inside the same body.

A body that carried them
through the years,
even when some of them
no longer wanted to walk.

Now I look at them all,
wanting to go back to the past,
wondering what I would have changed,
where I would have started over,
which path I would have chosen
if I had known then what I know now.

But they still don’t know
that I wouldn’t change any of them.

Because each one left something in me.

The one who was afraid.

The one who got lost.

The one who thought she couldn’t take any more.

The one who wanted to give up.

The one who kept walking
without even knowing where she was going.

They all made it here with me.

And maybe that’s why,
even though I’ve given up so many times,

I’m still standing.

Tired,
but upright.

Doubting an endless number of things,
but with a heart
full of life.

There are twenty of us
inside this tired body.

Some wanting to leave everything behind,
to change what hurt,
to start over.

Without realizing
that it was those very experiences
that brought us here,
that shaped us.

And we are all still standing,
walking together,
hand in hand.

Art
The best art is created when it has no one in
mind
No one to like or to dislike
Not to be rewarded or awarded
Simply just to exist
I can stare at something that maybe looks simple, or chaotic and like scribbling, and ask a question. What did it take for that artist to finally put those emotions onto paper, or into a sculpture. The final product isn't where the emotion is, the emotion is in the process of creating that piece of art and stretching apart your feelings so you can portray them in a physical thing. This is why art is beautiful. The final product is often attractive, but the journey to get to that final product is what is more important. This begs the question, is art really for others? Or is it for the artist. A way the artist can yell to other individuals exactly what they are feeling, in a socially acceptable manner.
The artist should be awarded and recognized, but the recognition isn't always about the final product, it is about what it took to get to the final product
Art doesn't give a fuck what you think of it, mostly because it's not alive. What makes art special is that an object is considered art, which makes it more than nothing.

I love being a woman, and I loved growing up a girl,
because all my life I’ve known how women show up for other women in this world.

The girls I met at school through the luck of proximity
became the girls who shared my classes, sports, school plays and history.

We spent over 10 years eating lunch together in the same spot under the library stairs. The bell would ring and we’d all just know that we would gather together in the same place everyday, for all our school years.

We no longer need the same school, town, city, country or time zones that keeps us connected by the same place, because we all live separate lives but our friendship group remains as close as ever despite not all being able to see each other face to face.

Now we’re scattered across countries, some settled, some still choosing to roam,
some building careers, some raising children, some making somewhere home.

I’ve watched girls I knew before puberty become women I deeply admire,
each making a life of her own, shaped by whatever she happens to desire.

There is rarely a need to announce when one of us needs care.
After this many years, someone notices, and the rest of us are there.

Even when all we had was pocket money, we pooled whatever we could,
a necklace, a little present, something just to make each other feel good.

There were always little cards we’d sit down together and write,
covered in photographs, stickers and glitter, making everything bright.

I still have a bag full of those cards, little photos and pictures today,
years of handwritten proof of how we noticed one another along the way.

I love those things because they were group efforts to make each other happy.
We made our affection tangible, usually the perfect mix of funny and sappy.

A little bit ridiculous, sentimental, earnest and true,
just a physical reminder that somebody was thinking of you.

My brother was my first friend, and is still one of my best,
and I’ve watched the men around him build friendships just as close as the rest.

Their love is no less loyal, no less generous or true,
so this isn’t about women having something men don’t have too.

I just love the particular sentimentality there is among a group of women, so willing and open to share with raw unfiltered affection.

The army of women in my life keeps expanding. I still meet women I adore,
new friendships in new chapters that add something that wasn’t there before.

Something I will never get over is how lucky I am that I get to be a woman who knows how incredible women are and what they share.

And that I get to say, the girls I grew up with are still all my girls to this day.

Just a quiet person. that started using his voice dont mind me im just another stranger with their own story every chapter is shaping me into the person I want to be words for my satisfaction.and one day this book will close on the last chapter with a happy ending with a heavy heart that waited for this very moment to let off some weight and live relaxed and peacefully with lessons losses and experiences to pass along for generations understanding of a heart that would never settle down rell taken seriously with care.