Poetry
The Price of Comfort
She sat,rooted in the same chair,
fingers tracing the rim of her bitter coffee,
eyes heavy with waiting.
I wanted movement.
A suitcase half-packed, a flight to catch,
paint-stained hands, a desk cluttered with drafts
of things she’d written but never sent.
I wanted her to want more—
To build, to rise up,
to be the kind of woman I admire
instead of the kind I quietly grieve for.
But she prayed for comfort instead of courage,
settled instead of searched,
let the years fold over her like bedsheets
tucked in too tight to move.
Maybe that’s why I watch them—
women with voices like sharp heels on pavement,
who smell of perfume and the places they’ve been,
hands wrinkled with stories that sign checks in their own names.
Maybe that’s why I love them—
the women who have never have to ask,
whose desires are not whispers, but declarations,
strong enough to stand without apology.
Maybe that’s why I want to be them—
the women who don’t wait,
who move with intention,
and speak like their words were never meant to be swallowed.
But no. She just sat,
waiting,
as though the years might change their course
if she stayed still enough.
As if waiting was enough to bring her the world.
The Echo That Remains
The stars still wait for us,but we no longer look up.
Our ancestors traced the heavens with bare hands,
built monuments to meet them,
spoke a language written in stone and connection.
Now, we drown in the shadow of blue light,
our eyes cast downward,
scrolling through a world of pictures,
seeing everything, yet feeling nothing.
Once upon a time we were a people of moonlight and stories,
gathered close, hands calloused from tending the earth.
Now, we sit in rooms alone,
voices lost in the static,
a thousand faces passing, none turning toward us.
The land knew our names once.
We whispered back, planting seeds instead of cities,
offering thanks instead of demands.
Now, the soil grows weary.
The waters run quiet.
We take and take, calling it progress,
while the ancient gods turn their faces away.
Gold weighs heavier than kindness.
Power speaks louder than reason.
And we—
we have learned to survive, but forgotten how to live.
To build, but not to belong.
To consume, but not to connect.
Wisdom previously passed through generations,
carried in the voice of a mother’s song,
etched into the lines of a medicine man’s hands.
Now, we drink from an endless stream of empty promises,
mistaking wealth for worth,
mistaking noise for knowledge.
Stonehenge still absorbs the solstice sun,
the pyramids hold their breath in the shifting sands,
and deep in the jungle, vines reclaim
the ruins of something sacred.
Chasing progress while forgetting the wisdom that once guided us.
Scrolling endlessly while the world keeps spinning, spinning.
Time does not forget,
even when we do.
But listen—
there is still something ancient in us,
restless, waiting to be remembered.
Until then, we watch
as hands driven by hunger and greed
set fire to the earth.
And when there is nothing left—
perhaps then, in the silence,
can we rebuild.
My Body Speaks
For years, I have mistaken you for something to fix,a house shifting on an uneven surface
a puzzle with missing pieces,
drowning under the weight of what I refused to let go.
You spoke to me in whispers—
hips locked like doors I refused to open,
a throat thick with words I swallowed,
a stomach turning every time I held too much inside.
I ran to doctors,
searching for a name to pin to my discomfort,
looking for remedies to heal what I couldn’t name.
But you never needed a name.
You needed me to listen.
Disease.
Dis-ease
A body out of rhythm with itself,
like a string pulled too tight,
pinched off from something greater than yourself.
You are not a thing to be tamed,
not a foreign land I must conquer.
You are the earth beneath my feet.
The steady roots that ground me.
The home I have not yet learned to call my own.
I feel you most when I stretch toward the sun,
when I move without resistance,
tender limbs and lighter thoughts,
when I stop bracing for a fight that does not exist.
You tell me I am holding on too tightly,
To let go.
That I am not alone.
And maybe, finally,
I am ready to listen.
The Earth Belonged to Giants
Before us, the earth belonged to giants.They walked where we now build highways,
roamed beneath skies untouched,
lived and died without ever seeing our form.
Two hundred million years—
an eternity, a glint—
until fire and ice wiped them clean,
made room for something new.
The earth has turned for billions of years,
and yet, we act like we own it.
Believing ourselves permanent,
believing we own what has only ever been borrowed.
A breath in the body of history,
a ripple in an ocean that does not remember us.
The stars continue to burn, the mountains forever shifting,
And yet, we are here.
Flesh and bone and fleeting thought.
Stardust given form,
a heartbeat in the great, endless turning.
We are but whispers in a historic song.
Do not strain to understand the melody—
just listen, and know it is beautiful.
The Female Gaze
Your eyes hold stories,ones your voice never dared speak,
truths you’ve tucked away
in spaces and places too painful to revisit.
They are silent witnesses,
honesty hidden beneath your skin,
trapped in the fibers of your bones.
You hold it all, never letting it go.
Behind the gaze,
a thousand untold stories
wait in the moonless sky,
eyes whispering what words cannot.
But I’ll listen,
even if you never dare to speak it.
Mother Stands for Comfort
She moves like a quiet tide,always there, always pulling,
never asking for anything in return.
She is the first home you ever know,
the hum beneath your ribs,
the current that pulls you forward
before you even know how to stand.
Love in the quiet gestures—
in packed lunches, in birthday candles,
a hand on your back before the fall,
the way she remembers the details
you forget about yourself.
In silence, she knows
when you aren’t ready to tell her everything,
and still, she stays—
patient, waiting.
She holds the weight of years,
watching as you step further away,
somewhere, she is thinking:
“We are having a ball, we are all fine.”