You swallow the words before they reach your tongue,
a quiet surrender disguised as patience.
You let the silence settle in the room,
assuming it was meant to be there all along.
The door stays shut because you never reached for the handle.
You convince yourself it’s locked,
standing on the threshold,
building a wall out of everything you refused to say.
It feels safer to stay still than to risk a falling out,
so you accept the outcome you constructed in your head—
a shadow box of scenarios where you always lose,
crafted entirely by your own doubt.
To turn away without speaking
is to sign off on the verdict yourself.
You hand over your agency to hesitation
and call it bad luck.
The distance between what is real
and what might have been
is just the silence you chose to keep,
a line you drew and never crossed.
In the end, the world only gives you
the exact emptiness you handed it,
leaving you to wonder if the answer was always no,
or if you just made it so.
The pain of remembering
Sunlight filtered through the high oak leaves, where summer stretched out long and bright, we scrambled up the mossy bark and reached until we touched the light. Hand over hand, my sister led, no branch too tall, no sky too wide, with scraped-up knees and breathless laughs, and all the universe inside.
Down in the yard, the cool blue pool waited to catch our cannonballs, a splash that sent the morning free beyond the wooden garden walls. We raced across the surface tension, underwater, eyes open wide, a pod of dolphins bound together by the pull of the shifting tide.
When shadows grew across the grass, the yard became a battleground, for hide-and-seek and Tag you're it, and every secret spot we found. We ran until our lungs were fire, until the porch light flickered on, collecting moments in our hands before the golden day was gone.
Now time moves fast and miles stretch out, but locked inside the heart remains the echo of those summer shouts, the quiet after summer rains. A tangled web of laughing voices, a fortress built of grass and sun— the gentle weight of growing up together, bound as more than one.
We are not that young anymore.
They were impoverished.
Boys were always more cherished.
So, the birth of a girl did not bring smiles.
What a girl did bring were many options.
All of them heart-twisting and desperate.
To lay the babe on a trash heap outside of town
seemed cold and harsh, they reasoned.
Wild beasts might painfully finish her off.
Tossing her to the frothy fangs of the Yangtze,
she might get battered into painful death.
They thought about putting a hand over her little mouth
but neither had the heart to do such a thing.
They could gently place her in the chamber pot and seal off the top.
At the very least, it would be dark and quiet.
But any pot would forever be a constant reminder.
They finally decided, like millions before, to place her in a basket.
Perched high in the arms of a tree.
Her last day or two would be spent amidst birdsong.
Gently kneading her soul into prayer wheels.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Lightning lances across the sky
But off in the distance like dragon spines
Are the Mountains of Madness
And that is where I march
A sky twisted scarlet and violet
The clouds themselves seem to be bleeding
And the temperature alternates
Between blistering heat and blizzardly freeze
Reality is fabricated from dreams
And dreams are a distortion of my thoughts
Which are poorly mimicked by my voice
And I can't even tell what is real
I found the blade of heroes
In a secret spring in a forgotten forest
Blessed as a scion of the gods
Even the elves helped guide my feet
A witch cast illusions over my eyes
Humans became demons
And demons became human
But the harsh reality is that was always true
In a world of demons and angels
Sometimes it's hard to know which is which
But with a hand over my heart
I offer a solemn prayer to find guidance
The Mountains of Madness loom larger
Demons, angels, and witches all beaten
And while never defeated I have been wounded
But to the mountains I have come
But alas the madness was not in the mountains
Because the madness was in my mind
And the villain I pursued this whole time
Was actually me all along
Peaches homegrown on grandparents farmland
Eaten with extra sugar from pie pan
Always on order in grandma's kitchen
Cherished family tradition each year
Hand over hand voted the best in town
Paired with ice cream and homemade with topping
Ideal for any carry in dinner
Enjoyed on a warm summer day with milk
Power does not shout.
It collects.
What shocks the world
is not strategy,
but hypocrisy.
America preaches sovereignty.
Yet demands yours.
Data is sacred at home.
Disposable abroad.
African leaders,
you sign away bodies
you do not own.
Consent was never asked.
Silence was purchased.
Even foolishness
has a limit.
How long will you trade futures
for promises?
Data is not paperwork.
It is power.
He who owns it
writes tomorrow.
You hand over blood,
bones,
and breath—
then call it partnership.
You trust a deal
crafted by Donald Trump,
a man who measures nations
by profit, not dignity.
You trade minerals
for ink.
Lives
for paper.
What will your children inherit—
databases,
or chains?
Through data,
Africa is mapped.
Measured.
Exposed.
Colonies no longer need soldiers.
Only servers.
Citizens of Africa,
history is watching.
A ruler who sells his people
is not a leader.
He is a broker.
And power,
as Niccolò Machiavelli warned,
respects only those
who guard it.
Remember this:
Who controls data
controls destiny.
And destiny, once surrendered,
is rarely returned.
and then knew there was nothing else to do
but surrender meditation and prayer
hand over to a Higher Power and accept
that he could not do this on his own
and yet was never alone
solitude did not come as an instant pleasure
was not always sufficient but necessary
and practice delivered some progress
he would not rest on the wreckage or laurels
made amends for past mistakes to others and himself
and made a plea to open up to a new future
whatever it took wherever it might go
faith without action is deadly and dead
he would do what he could and what was suggested
eventually his fears receded and resentment were none
patience grew bigger one small bit at a time
at times he still wished and tried to control
was not sure what had to be accepted
as opposed to what could be changed
outcome detachment never came easy
moments arrived when he felt happy joyous and free
and not just the freedom of nothing left to lose
God had not brought him this far on the journey
to abandon him now on the path
Am I the one to blame when you come to the realization that you can no longer stay?
Because I know I make everything complicated when I tell you I want to know all of it.
Tell me about your day and what you saw; did you go out and have fun or do anything at all?
What colors did you wear and did you buy anything new? Did you accidentally run into somebody that you knew?
What did you say and what did you eat? Did you come up with any ideas you think are neat?
Tell me the things that you think are stupid because I promise you, I’ll be happy that I knew it.
Tell me the good, the bad, the worries and thoughts. Tell me it all so I know what I have got.
I need to know the details of everything big or small because that’s what I expect when I give somebody my all.
Maybe that’s the problem with me. I want too much communicating.
I think I would make it stop if I could because I ruin everything I have that has potential to be good.
I’m so deep in my mind that I sometimes get lost. I beg for somebody to understand what this costs.
Because I’d physically hand over my thoughts if only I knew how and I’d ask for yours in return because I’m empty now.
Devolping a blueprint
this guy is "Championship
Material"; A scientific display
in full display of both men's
Ability. Due to there likeness
there display is equal, only due
the "Championship Advantage"
The "Champions Advantage" is
Seen through how the champion
defends. "A hand over the lions
cage, might give advantage to the
cagey experienced guy: if the challenger
makes him quit or hurts the champion
It gives him advantage to the board of
directers .Tokens and same tokens only
Gives the challenger reason to challenge.
A clear decisive defeat gives either challenger
reason to go on: or gives champion reason
to dismiss. A champion is dethroned, a worthy
Challenger gives reasons for a champion to bragg!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What was I thinking?
The receipts pile up in the dark~
a grocery list of half-baked epiphanies,
a parking ticket from the heart.
I folded my courage into origami cranes,
but they flew off with someone else’s wind.
The leftovers in my mental fridge
have grown fur and begun to sin.
The clock ticks in a language
I used to understand~
now it just spells my name
in Morse code, hand over hand.
What was I thinking?
The answer’s in the attic,
wearing my old jeans,
laughing at static.
Let my Lord help you pass the hopelessness
and wage battle against the demon
that forces blade to wrist.
Let Him lay you gently down
upon still waters and place softly
to your troubling mind, a kiss.
Let my Lord rise you from the mat you lay
that forces needle to vein.
Let Him heal what poison race through
your body to bring you close,
to where He reigns.
Do not thrash! Be quiet. Be still.
In the silence behold, the Lamp on a hill.
Let my Lord temper your evil thoughts against neighbors
who build rage and hate forcing
hand to gun.
Let Him gather forgiveness in abundance
which opens your fists and lessons the weight,
bringing understanding to why he hung.
Let my Lord place His hand over your troubled ears
that hears words from false prophets, demons and men
Let Him be your fortitude that calms your seas.
Start a prayer with Heavenly Father and finishes Amen.
Do not thrash! Be quiet. Be still
In the silence behold, the Lamp on a hill.
For purchasing a new house, I rejoice,
Yet always hear a faint, unearthly voice.
"Is it a ghost—or spirits?" I ponder,
And tremble with fear as my thoughts wander.
Doors creak shut, then unlock, then close again;
A wild wind hurls a window from its pane.
A whisper sighs, "This once belonged to me,"
Then thunders forth, "Hand over now the key!"
A sudden chill sweeps my feet off the grounds;
My trembling soul spins in unearthly rounds.
I'm bound within the monster's cold, dark reins—
My spirit flees, a soulless shell remains.
a twitch of the line signals action below
grip tightens on the rod in hope of a strike
heart pounding, scarce breathing, all senses aglow
success calls for patience and reflex alike
without warning the calm smooth surface shatters
ensuring a set hook is all that matters
when the angler prevails and takes a selfie
for the love of sport fishing set that life free
for protection through life they sell me a plan
to hand over thousands that i'll never see
signing my name to a contract i just scan
to cover a what if this happens to me
through health and good fortune the one thing i lose
payment for insurance that i didn't use
i'm sure some folks are thankful, to say the least
till viewing their next bill and find it increased
To her mother’s spanks,
let her cry on your tender shoulder,
oh, my toy Teddy.
Through all her sleepless nights,
lull her to deep sleep;
by her side remain steady.
When the weather burns hot,
soak her sweat away.
When cold wind whispers,
let your warmth be ever ready.
Though you are a toy,
be more than that to her.
If you had a tummy,
let her feed you, as if you live.
Though she dislikes your silver shade,
in the darkest nights,
let your brightness calm her fears.
Throughout her childhood,
even for a breath—never leave.
Remain her best friend;
though wordless, speak to her heart,
for only in your comfort she believes.
Such were the tender words of my aunt’s sermon
to my beautiful Eliza,
for she fulfilled each promise
made to Aunty Jane,
showering me with nothing but relief.
Joana, here I hand over to you Eliza,
from your grand aunt to you, my niece.
As she guided my childhood,
let her guide yours too.
Keep her clean, take good care of her.
As I hand her over to you,
one day hand her to your niece too—
a bond of comfort
that will outlive just us two.
Dear old man,
My quill quivers.
How do I glorify you,
With only ink, not gold?
Oh lady Calliope,
Lift my soul.
A pin drowned in an ocean of words.
Guide my conscience with notions,
Dearth of words I face,
To sculpt my father's grandeur.
A shrunken, grainy face is all that's left.
Struggles, unparalleled for eternity
Spine bows, for the weight he bears.
A warrior bending his knees to fate.
Wounds he has procured,
A soldier indisputably.
Laments the injustice once and twice,
Yet, prefers seclusion.
No more wars he seeks to wage,
On his own kinds.
The past shoots arrows at him,
Bleeding eyes and shattered bones.
How can one slip such agony?
And forgive his enemy.
Yet, still, Calliope,
Though you guide.
The shaking of my hand,
Hardly lets me carve his story.
Despite your hand over mine,
How do I shape an epic?
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