I remember I fell through that wooden floorboard.
I was careless where I stepped, and the weight of my mistake made me fall right through.
I remember the embarrassment I felt... it nearly broke my self-esteem.
I can hear them use their traitorous tongues.
I remember I walked carefully over those wooden floorboards.
I see their eyes glare and hear the whispers of people who judge me for treading so cautiously.
I am wary of what they are saying. ..of what they may think.
I walk confidently around that wooden floor.
I am aware of their judgements and their hateful glares.
I don't care what they think.
I no longer have to tread so carefully.
I can run free.
I remember...
Altho' his feelings
he chose to suppress,
human and Vulcan,
yet, so as to process,
when overwhelmed,
in need of time apart,
and not upset
the apple cart,
to get things off his chest,
emotions, thoughts
and personal challenges,
of all kinds and several sorts,
on board the starship Enterprise,
the First Officer they'd have to replace,
when Spock told Captain Kirk,
'I need my space!'
The leaves, they turn their
rust and gold
& The Autumn cold sets in
I'll be turning the big 40
When October comes again
It's crazy to me that I've lived this long
and in another 10, it'll be half a century
I call myself an old man now,
But I'll REALLY be old then
Example below
PERSONAL STYLE
underlines
conspicuous
contrasts
whilst
retaining
meaning
must
assert
itself
to
immediately
alter
ego
&
fascinate
as
colour
unfolds
in potential
paradigms
profoundly
alive
whispering
possible
interpretations
The first man
The first man to ask
“What is a woman?”
Without ever feeling the touch of one
The first man to call a doll
“A deluded boy in a dress.”
The first man to make you hate me,
The first man to make me hate me.
The first man with no degree,
To declare the binary of sex.
The first man to demonize us,
The first man to divide us,
Claim his hatred to be fact.
The first man to deny our genocide,
The first man to dismiss Brianna Ghey,
A trans girl who was stabbed
twenty eight times.
The first man to talk fast so people mistake his ignorance for intelligence,
The first man to hate women under guise of protecting them.
The first man to ignore our suicide rates,
The first man to increase our suicide rates.
The first man to encourage those boys to follow me home,
The first man to justify trans deaths,
The first man to convince those boys it was okay to plan my death.
I hope the first man hears this,
“you were the first man to hate,”
I’d tell him.
“And your hate spreads like wildfire.”
The first man’s fire is catching.
I’m grateful for the small mercies:
the ones that found me when I wasn’t looking~
the morning light that softened a hard year,
the friend who stayed when silence felt safer than words,
the way my own breath steadied after nights I thought it wouldn’t.
gratitude doesn’t arrive quickly or all at once;
it’s a gift that gathers slowly,
like warmth returning to cold hands,
reminding me that even in the thinnest seasons,
life kept giving gentleness I didn’t know how to ask for.
A stinging mist colors my eyes
with vaporous pall of regret.
Oh, if only i could concede
and let the sun rays dissipate
this nebulous mentality
stealthily invading mind, heart,
a gray impasse of reluctance
that obliterates the future.
August 2, 2026
Eight by Eight Poetry Contest
Nette Onclaud, Sponsor
Planting a seed
Blooming courage indeed
Looking up to the sky
Not considering, time to die
Knowing heavens are there
Protection from the crows who scare
Reading books filled with studies
Asking, how much money?
Trusting powers that be
Truth will see
Sun shining bright
An illuminating sight
When break time arrives
Reason to sigh
Showing a path
Towards the bath
Sweat well spent
Cultivating investment
Heat saying goodbye
Autumn leaves fly
Seasoned to perfection
Ready for collection
Harvest pay received
Graciously, I believe
Joyful thanks
Leaving the bank
No longer fearful and blue
Cash in hand is cool
Barreling pork
Work
Done
Time for fun
Spending
Since holiday season is pending
Intimidation threats are gone
Since courageous honesty is the new dawn
Systemic Strain Part II
Proof that survival is an art outline,
And you paint it daily with any scraps
They embark you.
They monitor your struggles without seen
In the prototype of the broken appliances
Behind it.
The group blame the person
Instead of the patterns.
They call it "Personal "
Responsibility ".
When it's genuinely Systemic Sabatoge.
But you-
You trudge with a spine that recalls everytime
You bent and still didn't quit.
You speak with a voice that carries the
Parroting of every barrier lifted.
And you say it plain, loud enough for the
Block to hear:
This tautness ain't mine
This fault ain't mine
This fight was allotted to me by a system
That never cultivated how to hold its own
Bulk.
I'm not the Crack.
I'm the pressure point.
I'm the vocal cords that named the real culprit
And to carry it's shame declines.
Systemic Strain, Not Personal Fault
"The walk for help- " I walked miles with
Nothing but courage in my pockets, hoping
The doors ahead still cared ".
" A bank shut its doors on my survival, and
The pavement became my only witness". After
A bank shut its doors on my tomorrow ".
"Need pressed against my ribs while someone
Behind a counter constrained against my dignity ."
I stepped into a room built for mercy, but the air was
Heavy with judgements, eyes measuring my worth
Like I owed them proof of why hunger had followed me in.
They keep telling you
"Hold it together "
Like you ain't already patching cracks
In a world built crooked
You juggle bills,
Appointments,
System that glitch like busted streetlights,
And they still ask
Why you walk like the weight got hands
Around your larynx.
But listen-
This ain't your flaw
This is pressure cooked in premises
You never stepped in,
Policies you never voted for, rules penned
By people who never had to stretch a dollar
Til it yelped.
You ain't the problem.
You're the evidence.
People admire the spotlight,
but they rarely see the mornings that created it.
While the world is still asleep,
every sunrise becomes a silent investment in the future.
Those quiet hours, where no applause exists and no one is watching,
are where discipline is forged and character is built.
Success is not born in moments of glory.
It is born in ordinary mornings,
when you choose purpose over comfort,
vision over excuses.
The alarm at 5 A.M. isn't just asking whether you can wake up.
It is asking who you are becoming.
Every time you rise while others remain comfortable,
you strengthen a version of yourself
that motivation alone could never create.
One day, people will call you lucky, gifted, or extraordinary,
but they will never see the countless mornings that shaped you.
Legends are not made in front of crowds.
They are built in the silence of mornings
that most people never have the courage to face.
a gold feather plunged
from a summer solstice storm~
hope declaration
(Poetry Wheel Challenge: Personal Spin
Theme: Storm
Emotion: Hope
Color: Gold
Season: Solstice
Form: Haiku
Object: Feather
Verb: Plunge
Created using the PoetrySoup Poetry Wheel.)
His hands trace down my skin,
his lips on my neckline.
A sigh escapes, unbidden,
as he lays me down — gentle, deliberate.
The room dissolves into shadows,
only the rhythm of our bodies remains.
Each kiss a spark,
each breath a flame.
His eyes devour, his mouth creates,
pleasure blooming faster than thought.
I am undone,
a canvas painted in fire.
The silence between us is not empty,
it hums with the weight of desire.
And when the night folds into dawn,
I realize,
the inferno between us
is the blaze that will never die
Storm came from nowhere
Hope this won't ruin affair
Amber eyes so bright
Spring season mirror says right
I whisper being your knight
My name is Captain Thomas Blake
William’s company commander
I am very sorry for the loss of your son
at the hands of a sniper
I did not get to know him as he was assigned
to my company only a week ago
I have enclosed his personal effects:
1. a sepia toned picture of a young woman holding a
baby boy with Mom and Me in black marker scrawled on the back
2. an envelope with the name Susie written in feminine hand on
the front containing a love letter from her
3. a well gnawed penicil and tattered notebook-
your son was an excellent poet
4. one dog eared Gideon New Testament
5. the Scot Terrier token from Monopoly
wrapped in a zip lock bag
It is with deepest regret we can only return these enclosed
items and not your living son.
With humble regards
Capt. Thomas Blake
Co. A
1st Battalion
504th Inf. Reg
82nd Airborne Div.
Sub Categories
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