Threaded Poems

You Already Know

You’ve spent years gathering pieces.
Lessons woven into your hands,
stitched into your voice,
threaded through the way you move.

Still, you hesitate.

As if wisdom needs a witness.
As if truth needs permission.
As if you are waiting for someone
to say, yes, you are allowed.

But no one is coming to grant you authority.
No degree, no title, no nod of approval
will make you more of what you already are.

You know.
You have always known.
And when you finally claim it—
they will know too.

A Piece of My Mind on Peace of Mind

They asked for a piece of my mind—
so I offered silence, wrapped in gold.
No rage, no clamor, no thunderclap,
just breath unbroken when the world turned cold.

Peace of mind isn't a destination,
but a pact with storms I’ve learned to outlast.
Not the absence of chaos—but grace,
in the moments I choose not to cast judgment, holding fast.

It's the stillness behind my steady stare,
the fire I tame, not the one I unleash.
It’s walking away when anger flares,
letting go of what I can’t reach, finding release.

I’ve stitched serenity from sorrow,
threaded calm through countless sleepless nights.
Peace, to me, isn't some distant tomorrow—
but daring to rest in fractured lights.

So if you want a piece of my mind,
you’ll find it in the way I pause,
in how I fold my fears like paper,
and whisper “soft” where there was “because.”

I’ll speak not to conquer, but to mend—
peace isn't passive, it’s power, my friend.

Muted Song

His lips parted,
yet the notes clung,
threaded in silence
by invisible keys.

The song stayed,
in a nest of aches,
where wishes fluttered
with no hope of flight.

He hummed,
but no one heard
the melody curled
beneath spoken noise.

They praised
his calm, his quiet,
and manly things
he always played.

Never knowing
his practiced hush
was a wretched note
never to be sang aloud.

He nodded,
clapped in soft time,
while his ribcage beat
a slow mourning tune.

Some songs bloom
like flowers aloud,
but his grew in pain,
rooted deep in hush.

Still it throbbed,
a muted plea—
just once, a tune
to be heard and freed.

A Place For Me

I observe the tapestry of life
Consumed by all of this strife
I tried to raise the wall
Only to watch it fall

They told me it's over
As I battled to stay sober
But why am I so lost
And what is the cost

I'm in the Hell of my own mind
Like a stranger I've yet to find
But if I were to truly fail
Would my haters hail

So I get up again and smile
Knowing it all goes to hell after awhile
But I just want to be fine again
No longer burdened by sin

I threaded through thoughts
I saw the discord it brought
So I took scissors and cut my ties
Unraveling a bevy of my own lies

I may have never had a plan
But I wanted to be more of a man
So as my life goes on replay
I wonder if I'll again be okay

From the best came the worst
And I feel my heart begin to burst
But see it's all in my head
And it wants to leave me dead

So I observe the tapestry of life
Consumed by all this strife
I genuinely just want to be free
And finally find a place for me

as we Metamorphose

I once took my mother’s pearls
and wore them to kindergarten.
I wanted to look like an
Adult—
a word now bitter on my tongue.

In playgrounds, we believed
in monsters—
now we drink with them,
            learn their masks,
            mirror their smiles...

We say growing up means 
ties with clips and red-bottom heels

when really
it's just learning—
to shed off sincerity,
so adulthood can
grow wings 
threaded 
with histories we never told.

In the shedding,
we never asked—

if the silk unraveling from our backs
meant we escaped—

or just overdressed 
for the fall.

Five dollar words to say I've lost you

My dearest love,

I pray that theses words find the strength to covey beyond the mere definitions they keep. I seem to have lost you in a riddle, a battle of inability's. or at the very least I've misplaced you within corrupted ideas of what you and i once were, a totality thru a proximity of souls.  Though my actionless vernacular vastly tells a different story to the contrary. It is only but the corner piece to a thousand parts, that  I have yet to lay.  still i find myself mesmerized by the haunting of foreign eyes. subsites  for your lack of understanding or for a lack of better words. Not so long ago they held me to the flames of lustful desire. I fell Persecuted for the feeding of a lonely heart.  The loss stretches beyond mere mortal comprehension. Its vastly seamless in its threaded existence. boundless, I know no measure to compare my love to thee extended hands and feet are of  consequence. there is no resolve.

YOU SURVIVED, and that's the perfect love story

What a beautiful story this is
a garden blooming after drought
when fire scorched the thirsty earth
and silence sang the darkest song.

You cupped your heart like fragile glass
let quiet wrap around your bones
not rushing past the shattered shards
but learning how to stand alone.

Slow stitches pulled from trembling hands
threaded hope through every tear
and in that gentle mending space
you found the soul you thought was lost.

No crowds or thunder mark your rise
just breath that steadies after storms.
You survived, and in that defining truth
you wrote the perfect love story.

Lies I never told, but never clarified

They with masks and scalpels
rewatch 
the seconds I was given without consent.
My breath      hitches
as warnings stillborn in my throat.

At this moment,
I am but
a body
opened 
for overdue answers no one asked for.

A poet’s gift lies in the voice of Truth.
No—
A poet's gift is to lie, 
constantly,
in lavender-gray syllables
threaded through with near-Truth—
The answer to unvoiced questions,
clipped out with tweezers,
a scorched coil—
my vocal cord.

I, a third-party haze—
rewatch
the moments I lived through like 
faint      breaths 
fogging an oxygen mask.

My lies will be forgiven,
when they split open my sternum,
and find Truth still beating—

They’ll know,
late Truth cuts deeper than scalpel.

Once and Again

We stood in the cold night rain
at the edge of the world
on a bluff above the river,
and everything—
           every thing— 
was alive with light.

Rain braided my hair
into the leafless branches,
threaded the earth through my feet—
and I felt it then—
the current humming in the roots
of Creation.

And many years later—
halfway out of the canyon,
skin salt-crusted— 
lungs burning—
knee screaming—
I saw it again.

No rain this time, just night heat
and the stone path rising—
but under the ache of each step
the same invisible light
threaded me back
into the vastness.

I have carried that light—
not always seeing it,
but feeling its hum
beneath the noise of living—
a silent promise
that nothing beautiful
is ever truly lost.

Words Seduce Images Fade

No thirst trap, no click bait, 
I give versed expression 
Silk and lace threaded thru 
each line and question 
Rawness felt, while images 
age and yellow 
Expressed words lasting, soft, 
sweet, and mellow 
I show my skin through 
words I’ll strip 
Describing it with my 
crafted script 
Holding you in whispered 
conversation 
Baring my soul for 
your imagination
Bared hips, and red lips, 
I write the scene 
Poetically giving a 
seductive theme  
Filtered softness, 
is an elaborate con 
Ones beauty fades
as my words live on 
My worth ain’t begging 
on my knees 
Everyone knows who I am, 
rebeltease 
See I carry myself 
with style and grace 
My tongue leaks ink, 
it’s words I embrace 
Spilling from my veins, 
stories of emotion 
Flowing like each ebb 
on a quiet ocean 
Vibing with words 
left feeling spent 
A warm calmness, 
your soul is content 
Seducing with the words 
I’ve written 
Images fade while 
my words still be hittin 
Sliding through one’s mind, 
pictures unfold 
Living forever, my words 
never grow old

After Love

The hush between the midnight trees
Is softer now that you are gone—
No echoes in the sighing breeze,
No footfalls on my waiting lawn.

I kissed your name upon the air,
It vanished on my breast laid bare;
The stars looked on with silver stare,
And bowed before the rising moon.

A hush of loss, a quiet ache
That burns with more than flame or fire—
What once was joy begins to break
And leaves behind a dim desire.

I do not weep, I do not call,
But still the night is strangely wide—
The silver-threaded moon sees all,
And dreams you sleeping by my side.

Yet love has left—where can I hide?

The Moon On A Spoon

If I could, I would fetch you the moon on a spoon..
Dipped in the shimmer of midnight’s lagoon.
I'd cradle the stars in the palm of my hand..
And scatter their light like the soft golden sand.

I’d weave you a robe from the breath of a star..
Threaded with echoes of realms from afar.
A crown made of fireflies, twinkling and bright..
To dance on your brow like a spellbound delight.

I’d summon the winds from the mystical deep..
To sing you soft lullabies while you sleep.
For magic is boundless, and love is its tune..
If I could, I would fetch you the moon on a spoon.

Undergrowth with Two Figures - Van Gogh

Spilled from dew drenched petals,
an overflow of laughing ferns
warring with the still forms – graceful 
amazed by the atmosphere of light 
softly woven through the inklings, aglow

stirring winds beneath shadows
pouring from the twilight’s joy
softly threaded into the horizon, a sky
worn gray by the gentle hope
arising beyond the meadow’s charms

leaking, a trickle of melancholic
born of grief and glory
spattered with golden blossoms, dozens
bowing and kneeling to worship
praising their Creator, the Author of light

nodding like they’ve some reason
beyond the presence of silence
still forms, guided by the heartbeat, the rhythm
a song amid the savannahs quiet breath
pouring out joy through the air

bending and falling, calling to the morning
a reflection of still beauty, on the wings of truth
blowing across the steely skies
remembering the day when this artist transposed
the music of the heart to a story of genius

Steam and Stubborn Pages

To the boy who studied by the roadside resto’s dim flicker,  
muffling jeers with pages turned in stubborn hands—  
each “you’ll fail” dissolved into the steam  
of instant coffee, your only shield against the dark.  

They said your mind was a room with locked doors,  
but you wore down the keys with every sleepless night.  
The floor where you crouched to hide report cards  
now holds letters addressed to cities threaded with light.  

Your palms, cracked from scrubbing car windows clean,  
smooth invoices and keyboards, but still bear the stain  
of soap and sweat—quiet proof of the hours  
you traded for a future no one else could name.  

You don’t shout your wins. They hum in the calm  
of a rented flat where silence feels like peace.  
The child who clutched pencils like lifelines  
smiles, finally, at how far a stubborn heart can reach. 

-

Universal Plan

When God laid out the plan for humanity,
    A blueprint of love was interwoven in the tapestry.

Threaded layers went beyond any cotton, silk, or wool,
    As a final finished garment, covered mankind in full.

Throughout this design, men and women were the key.
    Not always in perfect unison, when they would disagree.

Yet as companions, they fought the darkness, unto the light,
    As equal partners, no matter gender, to survive the fight.

This plan, though seemingly simple, was far more complex,
    When power sought its hierarchy, and segregate sex.

It is here the battle continues, where the greed must be denied,
    And the heavenly architecture created, may be fully applied.

While there exists more hope and faith, than utter disbelief,
    That's driven by love and equity, in the relief.

It shows regardless of the differences, among the family of man,
    The foundation is firmly rooted, in this master plan.

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