To the ones who didn’t make it past yesterday,
we remember you.
Not for the way your story ended,
but for every quiet moment
you tried to stay.
You carried storms
no one else could see.
You fought battles
that never made a sound.
And even on the days
you felt invisible,
your life touched more than you knew.
We speak your name
with softness,
with honour,
with the kind of love
that doesn’t fade just because you’re gone.
And to the ones still here,
reading this,
breathing through another hard morning,
your story isn’t finished.
Your light is still needed.
Your voice still matters.
Your tomorrow is worth reaching for.
May we live in a way
that remembers them,
and protects you.
May we choose compassion
before judgement,
connection before silence,
hope before the dark.
For the ones who didn’t make it past yesterday,
we carry you.
For the ones who did,
we’re glad you’re here.
You do not have to carry the whole sky.
The clouds will move without your permission.
The wind will blow whether you hold your breath or breathe.
Your mind is not a battleground to be won.
It is an ocean.
The storms on the surface do not change the deep water.
Sit quietly with the noise.
Let the thoughts pass like cars on a distant dual carriageway.
You are not the traffic.
You are the space through which it moves.
Forgive the parts of you that are tired.
Honour the pieces that are still trying.
You are a whole world, evolving in the dark,
Waiting for your own sun to rise.
You’re hurting, lad.
Not the kind of hurt you can point at,
but the kind that sits in your chest
like a locked room.
You’ll carry nights
where you can’t breathe right,
mornings where you wake up tired
of waking up.
You’ll think the pain means you’re broken.
It doesn’t.
It means you’re still here.
And here’s the part
you’d never believe:
that same pain —
the one that made you hide,
the one that made you quiet,
the one that made you feel
like you were built wrong —
will become the reason
other people keep going.
Your honesty will steady them.
Your cracks will guide them.
Your survival will give them language
for their own storms.
People will read your words
and feel their own pulse again.
They’ll whisper,
“If he can make it through that,
maybe I can too.”
The boy who thought he was nothing
becomes the man
who gives others hope
because he never lied
about the pain it cost him.
Keep walking.
Every step you take
is a light someone else
is following.
There is a voice beneath the wreckage
a pulse that refuses to fade.
It hums through the cracks in the silence
where belief hides its face.
Inside the mind the weather shifts without warning
thoughts gather like storms
and the world can shrink to a single room
a single breath
a single moment that feels too heavy to hold.
Some days the noise is sharp
fast
merciless
and a soul tries to stay upright
while doubt circles like a shadow that knows every weak place.
Other days the quiet is worse
a slow sinking
a numbness that steals colour from everything
until even hope feels far away.
But beneath all of that weight
something still moves.
A small steady spark
a stubborn thread of strength
a quiet refusal to disappear.
It rises in the smallest moments
in the return of steady breathing
in the choice to stay
in the truth that survival is not softness
but a kind of courage that rarely gets seen
yet changes everything.
So hear this hope
not as prayer
but as proof.
Even in the ash
something still sings the truth.
You have been carrying more than you ever admit
haven’t you
The quiet weight
the long nights
the way your heart keeps breaking
yet somehow keeps going
You think no one notices your trembling hands
your tired eyes
the way you hold yourself together
even when you feel close to falling apart
But I notice it
And it matters
Because the fact you are still here
means something
It means you have not given up on yourself
even on the days you swear you have
Hope is not loud
It does not burst through the door
or call your name
It is a small stubborn ember
a flicker in your chest
that refuses to go out
And it is still there
Right now
Even if you can not feel it
So breathe
Let this moment be the one
where you realise you are not broken
you are becoming
And the world has not seen
the best of you yet
You looked at the world
with those hollow eyes,
as if someone had taken
a handful of your light
and walked away
without saying why.
You kept your voice quiet,
not because you were weak,
but because you learned too early
that shouting into storms
doesn’t make them stop.
Still, there was a softness in you
that refused to die.
A small, stubborn ember
that glowed in the dark
even when you swore
you felt nothing.
People saw the silence
and thought it meant emptiness.
But I saw the truth —
the way your hands trembled
when you cared too much,
the way your heart cracked
just to let others breathe.
You were never hollow.
You were a room
where grief sat cross-legged
and hope stood in the doorway
waiting to be invited in.
And if anyone had looked long enough,
they would’ve seen it —
the quiet miracle
of someone who kept going
even when the world
kept taking.
I know you don’t see it.
You look at your reflection
like it’s a stranger, you owe an apology.
But I’ve watched you hold yourself together
on days that would have broken anyone else.
I’ve seen the quiet strength
you pretend isn’t strength at all.
You talk like you’re replaceable,
like the world wouldn’t notice
if you slipped out the side door.
But I would.
I’d feel the silence you left behind
like a missing heartbeat.
So hear me now,
even if you don’t believe it yet:
You are worth the breath you take,
the space you fill,
the love you keep pushing away.
And one day,
when the noise in your head finally softens,
you’ll see what I’ve seen all along
you were never the problem.
You were the light trying to survive its own shadow.
I Hope One Day You Look Back and Realize You Were Always Enough
I hope the day comes
when you finally see yourself
without the weight
you’ve carried for years.
When you look back
and notice the moments
you kept going
even when no one saw it.
The nights you held yourself together.
The mornings you rose
with nothing but a thin thread of hope
and still stepped forward.
I hope you see the quiet courage
in every choice you made
to stay, to try, to breathe.
And I hope you realise
you were never failing.
You were becoming.
You were always enough —
even on the days
you couldn’t believe it.
There are nights you fold into yourself
because the world feels too heavy
and your own name feels like a burden.
Nights when you stare at the ceiling
and wonder how a heart can keep beating
when it’s this tired.
You think no one sees you.
You think no one hears the quiet ways
you’re asking for help.
But I do.
I hear every unspoken plea
in the way you hold your breath
and pretend you’re fine.
You are not a lost cause.
You are a bruised soul
still trying to stand
after life has knocked you down
more times than you admit.
And that fight in you —
that tiny, trembling spark
that refuses to die —
that is proof
you’re still worth saving.
One day, you’ll look back
at the version of you
who begged the universe for mercy
and you’ll realise
they were never broken beyond repair.
They were just waiting
for someone to remind them
they mattered.
You matter.
You always did.
You always will.
I didn’t realise how early it started —
the slow unravelling,
the way life kept taking pieces of me
I wasn’t old enough to name.
I learned to carry it quietly,
to pretend the weight was muscle
and not the ache of being overlooked.
And the years kept moving,
and I kept shrinking to fit them,
teaching myself to stay small
so no one would notice the cracks.
I became fluent in holding it together,
in swallowing the words
that might have saved me
if I’d ever dared to speak them.
There were nights I lay awake
feeling my own heartbeat
like a stranger in the room,
wondering how something
so tired
could keep going anyway.
And mornings where I rose
not out of hope,
but out of habit —
because stopping felt louder
than surviving ever did.
This is my story —
the one I never meant to tell,
the one written in the quiet places
where no one thought to look.
And if you feel something shift
inside you as you read this,
if a familiar ache stirs,
then maybe you know the truth too:
some of us learned to live
by pretending we weren’t hurting.
Some of us are only now learning
that we deserved better
than silence.
He learned early
that silence is safer than truth,
that a man who cracks
is a man who disappoints.
So he stitched himself together
with whatever he could find
anger, humour,
a smile that never reached his eyes.
Most people only ever saw the surface:
the steady hands,
the easy nod,
the “I’m fine.”
But inside,
whole rooms were collapsing
and he swept the dust into corners
hoping no one would notice.
Some nights, he stood in the doorway
of his own life,
wondering how he became a stranger
to the boy he used to be
the one who believed in light,
in second chances,
in mornings, that didn’t hurt.
He isn’t broken,
but he’s tired
tired of holding himself upright
in a world that keeps asking
for the strongest version of him
even on the days
he can barely breathe.
Still, he rises.
Not because he feels brave,
but because something small inside him
refuses to die
a flicker,
a pulse,
a quiet voice whispering
“stay.”
And maybe that’s what courage is:
not the victory,
not the healing,
but the decision
to keep walking
through the shades of grey
when all you want
is a way out.
Two months have elapsed
since I met Kapur my new friend
At a first nation men's group gathering
which we both attend
Kapur an unusual name took a while but now easily recalled
A big gentle man at first seemed rather shy
Not much to offer, my first impression, misguided, I'm now appalled
Together Kapur another friend and I
helped a couple resurrect some garden beds
Amazed at Kepur's knowledge
much transferred and now stored inside my head
His broad knowledge of family
His broad knowledge of lore
His broad knowledge of language
more time to spend together I desire to learn more
Today a very brief conversation
his intended weekend activities revealed
Two events to play piano in a reggae ensemble
much pleasure to be enjoyed from the talent he will yield
Kapur I am blessed you've become my new friend
We'll continue to meet at the men's group we attend
The fact is it happens to all men
It’s only a matter of when
The horror we display
Will turn any women away
The hurt to our pride
That she will not get to ride
Our ego is hurt
With an inability to squirt
Our reactions are anger
Gone is our swagger
We felt we disappointed you
That we can’t give what is due
We don’t know what happened
And refuse to get examined
This problem is our own
The embarrassment alone
Is enough to run and hide
The fact we did not provide
You think it is you
That we cannot screw
Make it your own issue
We hand you a tissue
We need your support
Not your report
We are sorry is sometimes happens
It really does sadden
The irony of men’s life journey.
Man sees first light through the gap between his mother’s legs.
He spend most of his life trying to slip back into a gap.
The baby comes into this world wearing a hoody.
A doctor decides that the hoody must go, snip, snip.
The baby, the boy, the man, the old man’s head exposed
to the elements, except when entering the holy of holy’s.
Over eighty years have passed, time and fate has altered.
Gravity and age has shortened the height of ones stature
and added inches, feet and pounds to man’s girth.
Old age, has shrunk the length of the head of the family.
Old age, and all that that implies, leaves a negative impact.
As man looks down at the head of the family, the family jewels.
All he observes is sagging sacks and the hoody he lost as a baby.
B. J. “A” 2
June 3rd, 2025
(feelings)
They say Beauty is skin deep. They lied.
Then why are they the first to whine.
They say they like girl's with small boobs.they lied.
Then why do they busy checking out the girl with a push up bra.
They say they like skinny girls.they lied.
they windup looking like a toothpick next to a fat girl.
they say they like girls that is not wild and crazy.
When all they could of done is go to the girl they really wanted,
for not every female are desperate.
They say they not looking at that other girl butt.they lied.
They do not have enough hand to hold the one they already have.
I can make this page longer .but I have no feelings any longer
All I can say is they lied. and fcku for my time i wasted on you.
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