The voice in my head, wants me to sink.
Splash water on my face, now able to think.
Holding my breath in the silence, truth speaks.
I fear the unknown, behind all the masks.
imagining a doll with hairline fractures throughout the glass.
Picturing myself, now healing from the past.
Recalling moments where shame had consumed me.
Remembering the emptiness that at one point ruled me.
I cried out to the Lord, when the mind I knew I'd lost.
Rescued from insanity.
by the Son of Man
Jesus Christ, who bore the cross.
Praise God Amen
Built to Bend, Refusing to Break
Some days, the weight is quiet,
a heavy coat you didn’t ask to wear,
sewn from words left unspoken
and the cold, sharp truth of feeling unfair.
It settles deep within the chest,
a hairline fracture in the stone,
a sudden ache that reminds you
how heavy life gets when carried alone.
You learn to breathe through the bruised spots,
to speak in a voice that doesn’t shake,
to trace the outline of your own ribs
and count the promises you didn't break.
Because strength isn't the absence of tears,
nor pretending the sharp edges don't cut—
it’s keeping your heart open to the light,
even when every instinct begs to keep it shut.
So let the storm do what it must;
it cannot wash away what’s real.
You are not made of glass to shatter,
you are the iron forged to heal.
You carry the hurt, but it does not carry you.
You stand, you endure, and you begin anew.
A murmur beneath the pattern,
a hairline fracture in certainty
no one expected to see.
A sound without a cause,
a tiny flicker of light.
A shadow untethered by reason,
freed from explanation.
Sometimes the smallest crack
in the pattern let's light
slip through to reshape what we know.
We are taught to ignore the unfamiliar,
to dismiss whatever is strange and untamed.
The peculiar, the unsettling
becomes another fault to repair.
We moor ourselves to reason.
Insisting every mystery
must surrender to an explanation.
Yet, many great discoveries began
with someone pausing, noticing,
when dismissal looked away.
A question was asked and an answer was given:
" I belong to the lower class -- a hairline above the poverty level. I am okay with the old clothes that I've been wearing for the past years. I'm fine with less and I would be happier if you speculate less... :)
Be proud of yourself and be natural!"
I found it buried in Grandma’s drawer,
the blasted wooden spoon with the burn mark
and the hairline crack God knows what from.
She snatched it from my hand like it was alive.
“That thing’s seen more trouble than you,” she said,
and the air in the kitchen shifted,
as if the spoon remembered something
and was waiting to see if I did too.
It wasn’t for stirring beans.
It wasn’t for tasting stew.
that spoon was for pointing ... slow, deliberate
at any child that had forgotten their manners.
My father swore he could hear it hum
before it struck the table.
My mother said it twitched in the drawer
when someone lied in the next room.
By the time it came for my generation,
we didn’t need the smack,
just the lift of Grandma’s hand toward the drawer,
the shadow of the spoon rising like judgment.
And years later, when my own children tested me,
I reached for it not in a drawer, but in its own crock
felt its weight settle into my palm,
felt every ancestor nod in approval.
The spoon never touched them.
It didn’t have to.
Some objects carry their own history,
and this one still waits in the crock,
quiet as a predator stalking its prey.
between eyebrows and guru chakra
on the curve of forehead at our hairline
the higher third eye stirs
conjoined with the crown
entwined with spine and heart
with pulsations of love and light concurs
The sand was always falling~
but then, between one grain and the next,
a pause.
A fracture in time,
thin as a hairline crack in glass,
where You stood,
unmoving,
while the world blurred around You
like a river around a stone.
I reached~
not with hands, but with something older,
something that remembers
before skin, before breath~
and for the length of a held heartbeat,
You were there.
Not a voice.
Not a face.
Just the weight of being watched
by something that never blinks.
Then the sand rushed again,
and the moment dissolved
like salt in water.
Now I carry it~
this glimpse, this splinter of forever
lodged in my ribs,
where it burns
and does not burn away.
A hush folds over the room
Not silence but a velvet static
Like the air is waiting to see
What you do without dissolving
Shadows rearrange themselves
Into half-remembered shapes
Old thoughts brushing your ankles
Like animals that forgot your scent
The clock doesn’t tick tonight
It breathes slow and deliberate
Testing whether you’ll follow
Or break formation
Mind unwrapped from its sugar-dark cocoon
Moving with logic out of rhythm
A lantern swinging in a cavern
Where the walls shift when unobserved
There’s a tremor of clarity
Thin as a hairline crack in glass
Letting in a draft of something
Which cannot be named
In that draft
A question lingers half posed
Is this what the world feels like
When it remembers itself
Lying there sober as a moonbeam
Listening to the muted rebellion
Of a body relearning its own edges
A mystery unfolding one unlit corner at a time
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Betty Jean,
a teacher’s daughter~
saved copper pennies
in glazed ceramic:
a piggy bank, fat-bellied,
painted with cornflowers.
Named her Pigtail
her ceramic ears, one forward, one back,
listened for pennies~
its snout chipped clean
where Aunt Betty dropped it.
Pigtail was magical,
filled with the
clink of childhood promise
and deferred desire
against porcelain walls.
Save your pennies, Betty Jean,
her mother chimed
when the Depression struck.
Through those years
Pigtail swallowed
copper pennies
and watched wallpaper
fossilize into sepia landscapes.
Decades later,
Pigtail sits on my shelf—
a hairline crack
running through one ear,
waiting for Aunt Betty
and for the coins that
never come.
No coins inside now~
just the hollow thunk
when I lift it,
heavy with Aunt Betty’s
absence.
Teaser-act — LC
What’s alive, dead, and witnessing?
Me—listening.
It’s the teaser-act.
A black cat next to a fat fu**
Skip under a ladder cause I know the origin of clatter.
A four leaf—fig leaf
Screw a few, hide the grief
Streamline my hairline
And unstuck my head fu**
I light when the smoke is thick
when the veil is dense and the clock don’t tick
Like when the omen won’t knock
but the shadow still shifts
And fate rolls the dice
Like the three blind mice—
with a different ending.
They cut off the tail but the rat kept ascending.
While a blonde who*e is trending
It’s dissonance we’re spending
The serpent got merch and the choir’s pretending,
And the curse they rehearsed?
It was God they were vending.
The riddle’s in static,
the silence is pending—
I laugh in the mirror
while time keeps bending.
hairline chasm threads
cobweb white through obsidian—
wrapped around carved names
once warm on living tongues.
those who lived visit
with heads down,
pretending it’s superstition—
not guilt.
not memory.
not fear of love ending abruptly
in a plot of land, a handful of dates.
dusted words and
sealed memories,
but still the obsidian
counts
new leaves on the banyan trees.
they leave behind flowers—
a sigh: I came.
a silence follows them home—
petals bruised beneath their steps.
Enigmatically stubborn to style, the coif
Some days it can be easily pulled off
Other days it requires an exorcism
Like Zoolander it can look like ‘Magnum’
Hides my receding hairline like a charm
Sophistication to my head’s yardarm
Its antidote is a very windy day
Requiring heavy doses of hairspray
When it works my lady wants to stroke it
I recoil in fear, making her remit
For a single finger can ruin it
It’s a fickle angel to babysit
Sleep hits my eyes,
red bolts burned in
"Twice as Bright!"
They warned me.
My hand presses forward,
against the the glass.
I want to touch me
So Bad
and it is
So Close
The mirror splits,
runs, hairline little racer,
flees to the corner as
the blood from its bite
is swallowed in the ash
in my palm.
Cinderella for a day
her pavlov dogs barking
Long shanks meant for the shining,
hairline conquests prevail
Antibiotics for a Queen
the white path of riddance
Stupor by Rules
Hysterical outcomes
The all Mighty Sun
is streaming
hoping for the fog
I said…
In time, when my hair has gone wispy and grey
When my youth like my hairline has scampered away
When my joints creak aloud any time that I move
When my musical taste isn’t quite in groove
Will you tolerate me whilst I idolise you
Will you still be my soulmate when these things are true
And then I said…
In time, when my tummy casts shade on my feet
When my teeth as a set are no longer complete
When I enter a room and I don’t recall why
When I can’t hear the TV unless it’s up high
When these things happen, when these things are true
Will you still want me… please answer me do
And she said…
Remember we stood with the rings we would give
We promised each other, “So long as we live”
How many times did our dotage occur to us
Well, it seems that in your case, the ‘When’ is superfluous
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