Little Echoes spreading 2
From Kentish stones at Lympne's historic keep,
Where cameras roll and modern tensions creep,
The broadcaster delivered, sharp and loud,
A scathing judgment to the listening crowd.
The news of the return, he fiercely claimed,
Had left the royal household deeply blamed;
It landed heavy on the palace floors
Like rotting sacks of spuds behind the doors.
From sources wrapped in strict, protected shade,
He sketched the rift the swift arrival made
A rival camp upon the British soil,
Apart from those who do the daily toil.
He spoke of grifters seeking wealth and fame,
With shifting burdens and a fractured name,
While in the wings, a softer echo sighs
On lucky families under heavier skies.
In dancing, as experienced by my eyes,
I see figures of beauty and of grace,
in steps, choreographed or improvised,
moving rhythmically through space;
but, as I see others, I become aware
that others may set eyes on me as well,
another circumstance, altogether,
as they see a homely man without hair,
not an Arthur Murray clientele,
and much heavier than a feather.
Yet, by replacing sight with other senses,
I find it was my eyes that did impede,
with self-conscious, self-constructed fences,
but now, my joyous spirit has been freed,
and I can connect, engage, and hear,
as my body, merges with the sound
of the rhythm and the melody,
and my feet, my heart, my soul, my ear,
lose themselves as I twirl madly round -
thankful that I can no longer see.
Two hands holding a heart that's arrived. The heart will never witness the divide. The heart saying, "Don't ever stop holding me." The soul whispers, "I just want to be free." The hands feeling heavier, with every new heart. They have to let go,for another to start. The soul rises in the air. The heart panics, "This isn't fair!" But this was an appointment that wouldn't delay. The heart let go at 10:38. The hands kept on working. A soul slipped to the divine. A rhythmic heartbeat, now showing a flat line. So many hearts still awaiting fate. But the clock released this heart at 10:38.
Grief is not the body in the earth;
it is what happens to the room afterward.
A cup remains beside the sink.
Someone's coat survives the winter.
The ordinary continues
with an almost offensive competence.
Here is the absurdity:
we are forced to carry a thing that has no mass.
An empty chair becomes heavier with years.
A number remains in the phone
long after there is anyone left
who could answer it.
We make a sanctuary of the wound
because pain becomes evidence.
For a while, suffering is the closest thing
we have to touching them.
To hurt less feels dangerous,
as though love itself
might be measured by what continues to hurt.
Then comes the quieter loss.
You realize you are no longer only mourning them;
you are mourning your own failing capacity
to mourn them as you once did.
Your lungs adapt, day by day, to the empty air.
You laugh without guilt.
An afternoon passes without remembering.
And this is what no one warns you about:
one day their absence becomes familiar.
Not smaller.
Not repaired.
Familiar.
You would give anything
to be devastated again
with the precision
of the first morning.
these four walls
keep the outside world in,
but in here
my restless mind becomes calm.
though confined
by iron bars,
i feel no fear, and although
i'm without choices,
i end up with complete freedom.
as there's nothing to chase
i cease running;
since there's no way ahead,
looking deep
inside myself.
the noise of freedom
turned out to be
a heavier burden,
for it meant
a thousand open doors
which confined only me.
in the stillness
of the four corners,
the voice of silence
d e a f e n i n g.
all options exhausted,
i’m forced to finally
a r r i v e.
my hands are bare,
yet they hold everything.
my feet planted to the ground,
yet walking far.
shadows brood over me,
yet I see the sun clearly.
in this confined space,
i am...
infinite.
He stands by the window,
a glass of whiskey in his hand,
watching the rain pull the city
into little fractured mirrors.
Ten years, he thinks, ten years
since the house fell quiet,
since the brother turned thief,
slicing chunks out of their father,
not with blades but with empty words
and promises that tore at their seams.
Love is a joke some days,
a noose others,
and tonight it’s the weight
pulling down hard
on the bridge of his nose.
He pictures his brother now,
tall, sharp-angled laugh,
skin folded with time
and shamelessness,
the guileless predator
preying on the man who raised them,
left him lighter in the pockets,
heavier in the heart.
And though he loves him
doesn’t he always?
he could snap his neck clean
if the moment called for symmetry.
But Cain and Abel,
he wonders,
were the gods wrong to decide
who bled first?
Some sins stink worse,
and guilt is always tender.
Remember why you left, leaving behind what you left behind.
Smoke getting thicker with each passing breath in this line.
Weight becomes heavier, close to crushing one’s chest.
Slowly it happens; time passes with no rest.
Glancing at the clock, screaming, “I got this all wrong.”
Doors close when shut and open once received.
Barefoot is the one who stands on hot coals and refuses to leave.
Stagnant is the one who was given the tools but did not receive.
Washing up like seashells often do upon the shore,
most are similar to another.
But the rare ones are able to whisper unspoken secrets to the waves,
having the sea return answers only an ocean would know.
The constant pull, the true ebb and flow.
The instrumental foundation of lyrics being revealed to the soul.
A frequency within, decoding the heart.
When one track ends, the next track starts.
Grifting, Betrayal Vibes Alive
They broke me in pieces,
Thought I'd stay scattered on the pavement
But I ascended like a scandal they couldn't
Repose, every word a renewal.
I stitched my scars with tempo, made my
Heart beat,
A drum line, turned their lies into study,
Turned my pain into a spine.
I trudge heavier now-not with hurt, but with
Savvy, Every pace a comeback, Every breath a
Showing.
They tested to dim my fire, but I'm born with
Sureness.
But from Betrayal, activated by vision,
Unshaking, loosened up- A self- made revision.
Some nights feel heavier than they should,
like the air itself is leaning on your shoulders,
waiting to see if you’ll bend or break.
But you don’t.
You breathe through it, even when it stings.
You stay, even when the quiet gets too loud.
You keep a small flame going
in a room that forgot how to hold light.
There’s a kind of courage in that
the quiet kind, the kind no one claps for,
the kind that looks like simply existing
when everything inside you wants to disappear.
You’re not okay,
but you’re here.
And that means something.
It means tomorrow still has a chance
to be softer than today.
If this reached you, feel free to share it with someone who might need it.
If the destination truly belongs to you,
then you must have the courage to walk alone.
Not every dream is found in the comfort of a crowd,
some are earned in silent rooms where no one is watching.
A lifetime can be wasted searching for someone to save you.
Become your own strength, your own support, your own reason to keep moving.
Yes, there will be days when you stand completely alone,
but I have learned to turn my loneliness into my greatest power.
There will be nights when even you begin to doubt yourself,
when every step feels heavier than the last.
In those moments, gather the broken pieces of your courage,
stand up once again, and return to your work.
So keep walking,
even when no one walks beside you.
Do not stop,
even if the whole world stands against you.
Because greatness never waits for a crowd.
It is built by those who create their own path,
and by the time the world finally notices them,
they are already far beyond the horizon.
They say these are the golden years, yet I feel myself dissolving like smoke from a flame that never truly burned bright. I shrink back into the shadow folding onto its self. They tell me life is treasure, but in my hands its feel like heavy glass. I'm afraid to break, I hold on, I wait, They weight only grows heavier i wait for the Crack the shatter, the pieces that set me free. But it never breaks and neither do I. I carry the silence a burden that hums beneath my ribs. The glass doesn't break it only thickens, but I learn I learn to endure it.
Today has promise on top of the sadness
it feels like grief is a blanket, that I try to throw
off each day so that I can access happiness or joy
yet, it still covers me, sometimes oppressively
the weight of it is heavier than my weighted blanket
that I chose, this one I did not choose
but grief also has stretched me and made me grow
in ways I did not want to grow, there was no choice
involved, it was sprung on me suddenly
but I have grown and changed into someone
strong, compassionate, and less impatient,
but also a lot sadder and in tune to the pain of others
because I wear the pain of grief like a blanket that I can
never take off
I’ve cried for days, countless days
and my tears filled up pools
the kind of pools that are so deep you’re too scared to dive in
I stare at my own reflection as I stand at the very edge and fear takes over my body
so I close my eyes as a tear falls down my cheek and I throw myself in
I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SWIM
it feels nice underwater even though it’s cold
because I can’t cry underwater
I don’t know if my tears are different than yours
but my tears are of those that fill up my eyes very quickly
they’re the heavy kind, heavier than a mountain
so heavy that they carve paths on my face
and flow like rivers
Rivers of hurt and pain
And so underwater they don’t come out
which is good because I’ve cried to the point where my eyes started to hurt
I’m sinking slowly
meter after meter
and I’m losing my breath
my back hits the bottom
my lungs dry out
and darkness fills my eyes.
It leaves traces in the body long after it leaves the room
Some of them are soft, like flowers pressed between pages
Just the way I like them
Like light that lingers on walls after the sun is gone
Forming the most perfect silhouette
But not all are kind; others are heavier
Like coffins we never asked to carry
Built from endings we did not choose
Sealed with everything we could not say
I keep living between both
My love sinks sometimes, dragging whole seasons downward
But hope,
Hope refuses to learn how to drown
And I have started to understand that memory is not always mercy
It can become a place you go to visit
Or a place you never leave
So I am now learning to hold what happened
Without letting it become the death of me
To remember to survive the remembering
To choose life even when memory calls me back
To everything I lost
To choose breath
Over collapse
Love.
These feet plod. This heart
Heavier drags
Less motivated, whose mire
Of foul greeds through.
Filled up with creatures
With claws for hands.
Who, sinking deeper not one
Glint, gratified
Thereout is shown too ,upeyed.
Devil's outlands!
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