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Butch Reichard Poem
I dwelt within a house of shade,
By silent hand and sorrow made.
Each brick I laid with trembling care—
Of shame, of guilt, of cold despair.
No hearth did warm, no lamp did gleam,
But dimness thick as haunted dream.
No welcome waits behind the door,
Only the hush of evermore.
The days are long, yet never bright,
And stretch like wounds into the night.
No sun dares press against the pane—
Just fog, and hush, and weeping rain.
The floors do groan with every breath,
The mirrors gaze like eyes of death.
The windows sigh with unseen grief,
Each corner curled like withered leaf.
And yet—I stay. I do not flee.
This house, this gloom, is home to me.
Here silence wears a softer dress—
No need for cheer, no need to guess.
No laughing crowds, no hopeful din,
Just steady ache that dwells within.
No sudden joy, no searing dread—
Just whispers in my weary head.
I know these walls, each pallid seam,
Each echo of a buried dream.
The ghosts, they sit with quiet grace—
I know each shadow’s sunken face.
They speak not loud, nor plead, nor moan—
For in this house, I’m not alone.
To some, this place brings terror near,
The stillness thick, the creeping fear.
But I—have found a peace, in part,
In pain that pulses from the heart.
The world beyond spins far too fast,
With futures blurred and spells long passed.
But here, the sorrow is my own—
It carves its shape into my bone.
No pity ask I from the light,
Nor cure for this enduring night.
I rest in rooms of solemn tone—
This house of dark, this heart of stone.
Yes, I have dreamt of skies once clear,
Of laughter pure and love sincere.
But now I drift through twilight’s dome—
For grief, for now, has made its home.
And should some dawn reach through the gray,
To beckon me, to bid me stay—
Perchance I’ll rise, or break the spell…
But 'til that hour, I know too well:
This hush, this ache, this sacred gloom—
It is my hearth. It is my room
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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Butch Reichard Poem
I wasn’t born — I was expelled,
From choking smoke and screams I yelled.
No breath of grace, no holy light,
Just claws and fire in endless night.
No lullaby, no sweet refrain,
Just rusted chains and seeping pain.
A crib of ash, a whip for love—
I crawled while angels laughed above.
They fed me rot, they bled me dry,
They laughed each time I dared to cry.
And when I begged with shattered throat,
They carved their names, like little notes.
So now I wear this flesh like hate,
A cloak of wounds, a twist of fate.
I smile with rotted teeth,
And sleep beneath your floorboards’ creak.
I learned to cut when silence spoke,
Each line a vow, each scar a joke.
The blade became my whispered creed—
It wrote the truths that made me bleed.
Love? A myth with rotted breath,
A flower fed on fear and death.
They touched, they tore, they took, they lied—
Then danced while something in me died.
My veins are collapsed, my blood is coal,
My heart’s a nest of burning holes.
I am what screams when prayers go still,
The crack beneath your windowsill.
You call me "lost"? No — I was made,
From gaslight, fists, and razorblades.
Not man, not beast, just wrath on fire—
A godless hymn, a sweet pariah.
Your saints look down, your devils flee—
There’s no damnation deep as me.
I kiss the wounds that made me this,
And drink despair like holy bliss.
So say your grace and clutch your charm,
I’ll greet you with a lover’s arm.
My voice is ash, my touch is cold—
I bloom in places built from mold.
No grave, no rest, no final right—
I rise again in the night
I am the curse that hate conceived.
The one they birthed… then disbelieved
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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Butch Reichard Poem
What More Can Be Taken
I came from a house where love never stayed,
Where fists did the talking and kindness decayed.
Where silence was safer than saying a word,
And a child’s small heartbreak was never once heard.
I ran to the bottle, to smoke and to fire,
Chased numbness like peace, sank deep in the vile.
Got locked in a cage for the sins I had known
Iron doors felt kinder than being alone.
But I fought for my breath, for a life I could claim,
Clawed out of the wreckage, let go of the shame.
I got clean, stayed sober, built something true A family, a home, a version of new.
I thought I had made it, I dared to feel proud,
Stood tall in the daylight, away from the cloud.
But love turned again with a cold, cruel grin
She shattered our vows and let strangers walk in.
Each betrayal cut deeper than anything prior, she
Lit matches again I was on the edge of the fire
Then came the call, like a punch to the face,
My nephew my blood had Been erased
A gun, a goodbye, a silence too wide
Now part of me left when he chose to die.
I held his small hands when he first learned to stand.
Now I hold just the air, and the ache in my hands.
No answers, no peace, just a voice in my head Why him? Why now? Why not me instead?
Now I’m lost again, like a boat with no shore,
Don’t know what I’m hoping or fighting for.
The light that once warmed me feels foreign and thin,
Like it touches the world but won’t let me in.
But still I am breathing, somehow, some way,
Still walking through fire at the edge of each day.
I’ve died in small pieces and lived through the cost
So don’t call me weak just because Im lost.
If there’s meaning in madness, or peace after pain,
I haven’t found it but I stand in the rain.
With scars for my armor, and grief as my guide,
I carry the names of the ones who have died.
And maybe I break, or maybe I bend, or maybe this is the chapter where my story will end
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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Butch Reichard Poem
In the hush before the world began,
When stars were sparks in God's own hand,
Two souls were forged in sacred flame,
Bound as one, without a name.
They danced where time had yet to flow,
In realms no mortal heart could know,
And whispered vows in light and fire—
To seek, to find, to never tire.
Through lifetimes scattered far and wide,
Across the veils where dreams reside,
They took on form, forgot, returned,
Yet still within, their embers burned.
A glance, a touch, a sudden ache,
The pull no logic dares to break—
Each life, a quest to just remember
The ancient spark, the holy ember.
She may be moonlight on the sea,
He may be wind through autumn trees,
Yet when they meet, the world stands still,
As hearts recall the silent will.
They’ve been both kings and beggars poor,
Lovers lost to distant shores,
Yet always fate, with tender hands,
Will draw their footprints in the sand.
Not every life will end in peace,
Some flames are forged through storm’s release,
But always, always they return,
To feel the way their spirits burn.
So trust the signs, the gentle ache,
The dreams that make your spirit wake—
For twin flames born of sacred light
Will find each other, night by night.
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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Butch Reichard Poem
I hold my heart behind locked doors,
Worn and bruised from love before.
Each scar it bears, a whispered name,
Each beat a flicker wrapped in flame.
I’ve stitched this heart too many times,
With trembling hands and fraying lines,
Each patch a whisper from the past,
Each crack a vow that didn’t last.
I’ve stood in storms with open chest,
Hoping love would do the rest,
But every time, the winds grew cold,
And left me lonelier and old.
I’ve tasted bliss and drowned in lies,
Watched promises turn into goodbyes.
Now every smile feels like a test,
And trust won't rise within my chest.
Your touch is kind, your eyes sincere,
But still, I flinch when you come near.
Not for lack of want or need,
But fear that love will make me bleed.
I ache to dive, to fall, to feel,
But wonder if this wound can heal.
For every time I dared to try,
I learned how dreams always die.
So if I seem a bit withdrawn,
Or ghost you when the light feels wrong,
Please know that I do care
I'm just afraid I can't compare
Afraid of heights love makes me climb,
Afraid of running out of time.
Yet still, I stand here, trembling true…
Scared to love
but drawn to you.
I’m tired of hope, of starting new,
Of trusting hearts that don’t stay true,
My soul is worn, my light is thin…
I won't know how to heal again.
One more fall, and I won’t rise
No phoenix flames, no brave disguise.
Just ashes where I used to be…
This is why I can't trust me.
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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Butch Reichard Poem
She walks through the world with a quiet grace,
A spark in her eyes, on a sunlit face.
Laughter like music, clever and wild,
With the soul of a queen and the heart of a child.
She hides her light behind a broken smile,
Counts her flaws and lives in denial.
Not knowing her words could bend the sky,
Or that gods would destroy worlds to have her eyes. She believes she's average just a face in the crowd,
But she’s thunder in silence, soft yet loud.
She laughs like fire, spontaneous and wild, A siren's song, a rebel’s child.
But don’t mistake her soul for tame, She’s mercy clothed in holy flame. A paradox with every breath a lover of life and a flirt with death
A deity in mortal skin, Where divinity and sin begin.You don’t survive you endure,
And thank the gods her gaze found yours
She walks like a storm, and she loves like fire,
Her eyes hold secrets, edged with desire.
Her laugh is a blade dipped deep in delight,
Her tears birth oceans in the hush of night.
She forgets her power in a crowded room,
A rose made of ash, dancing with doom.
She’s broken and brilliant, wild and divine,
A sinner’s temptation, the cosmos’ design.
Don't try to define her she'll shatter the mold, Turn truth into thunder, and lead into gold.
So worship her madness, breathe in her breath,
She’s beauty and fury, a goddess in flesh
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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Butch Reichard Poem
They told him, “Boys don’t cry or feel,”
“Stand tall, be hard, and never kneel.”
So he learned young to wear a mask,
To fake the strength they dared to ask.
He bit his tongue, he clenched his jaw,
Afraid to show a single flaw.
And every tear he held inside
Just made him hollow, made him hide.
They praised him when he played it cool,
When he was quiet, cold, and cruel.
“Be tough,” they said. “Don’t act too soft.”
So he locked his kindness in the loft.
Each dream he had, each word, each spark,
Was buried deep beneath the dark.
He learned to smile without a soul,
To chase the goal, not be the goal.
He feared he'd never be enough
Not strong, not fast, not hard, not tough.
He questioned every step he made,
Afraid he was always to be brave.
At night, he'd lie there, wide awake,
The silence louder than the ache.
He'd count the flaws they couldn’t see,
And wonder, Is there more to me?
He laughed with friends, he played the part,
But shame kept growing in his heart.
He acted like he didn’t care,
But choked on ghosts that weren’t there.
And deep inside, a voice would speak
A whisper far too small, too weak:
What if you could just let go?
What if the world won’t hate you so?
But that voice got drowned in “Man up, kid,”
And “Real men never feel, they rid.”
So he became a walking war,
Of who he is and what's ignored.
He wanted space, but not to fight
He wanted peace, not proof of might.
He wanted someone just to say,
“You’re still a man if you’re not okay.”
But no one came. They never do.
So he became the silence too.
He locked his truth in rusted chains
And told himself, This is the game.
But now and then, he dares to dream,
Of what it means to break the scheme.
To speak his name, to shed the lie,
To lift his gaze and touch the sky.
To cry and not feel shame or fear,
To say, “I hurt,” and still be here.
To build a life not built on pain
To walk through fire, and not in chains.
He’s not there yet but he still tries.
Each breath a war, each step defies.
The boy they tried so hard to break
Is learning now
He gets to take.
Not just the blame, the weight, the fall
But love, and voice, and dreams,
and all
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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Butch Reichard Poem
They birthed me in a house of screams, Where shadows stitched my fevered dreams— No lullaby, no gentle womb, Just rusted chains and cradle's tomb.
A mother’s voice? A serpent's hiss. A father's touch? A clenched, cold fist. Each lull was laced with sharpened lies, Each smile a mask, each hug a vice.
I suckled rage from bleeding walls, With maggots dancing in the halls. I slept in beds that whispered death, And learned to love the stench of meth.
Oh blade, my bride—my faithful friend, Who kissed my wrists and did not bend. With every cut, I fed the void, With every slice, a sin destroyed.
I carved cathedrals in my skin, To exorcise the rot within. A crimson hymn, a holy moan, That left me trembling and alone.
My heart? A rotten thing encased In barbed-wire dreams and lovers' waste. They came with silk, then tore my seams— I gave them light; they gave me screams.
One whispered love then drank me dry, Another laughed while I would die. They danced upon my breaking back, And left me crawling, cold and black.
Now I—depraved, defiled, decayed— Am but the ghoul that love has made. A marionette of grief and gore, Hung in a room with no locked door.
The mirror mocks with grinning teeth, It shows the grave that sleeps beneath. No soul remains—just ash and flies, And stitched-up skin that tells no lies.
I hate this shell, this meat, this rot, This walking corpse the world forgot. And if you touch me, you will see— There’s something vile inside of me.
So drag me down where worms still sing, Where angels dare not spread their wing. Let me decay in sweet disgrace, With shattered bones and eyeless face.
No cross. No tomb. No final breath— Just me and madness… wed in death
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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Butch Reichard Poem
They taught me how to bite my tongue,
Before my voice had even sung.
To shrink myself, to take up less
To fold my fire into a dress.
“Be quiet now, don’t make a scene.”
“Good girls stay soft, polite, and clean.”
So I became a silent shape,
A shadow bound in silk and tape.
I learned to flinch before I spoke,
To laugh at every cruel joke.
To hide my hurt behind my grin,
And tuck the screaming deep within.
They told me I was “too intense,”
“Too smart, too weird, too on the fence.”
So I became what they could bear
A ghost that smiled, with perfect hair.
My worth was weighed in who I pleased,
Not in the parts of me released.
And when I dared to dream or shine,
They dimmed me down to stay in line.
I wore my doubt like second skin
Each “not enough” tattooed within.
I held my breath to keep them near,
And swallowed every ounce of fear.
I told myself I didn’t care,
But every glance became a snare.
I built my cage with grace and charm,
And called it “safety" not self-harm.
And now I live with haunted grace,
A practiced smile, a steady face.
But underneath, I break and bend
Still waiting for the pain to end.
I long to speak, to scream, to burn,
To tear the script and not return.
To say, “This time, I won’t be small
I want too much, I want it all.”
But when I try to rise, I hear
Their voices buzzing in my ear:
“Don’t be so loud.” “Don’t ask for more.”
“You’ll lose it all like once before.”
And maybe they were never right
But shadows shape the way I fight.
I fear the sun, though I want the sky
I ache to live, but don’t know why.
'Cause when you’ve spent your whole life low,
You start to think that’s all you know.
And even freedom feels like pain
Like dancing barefoot in the rain.
But still I hope, beneath it all,
That I was meant to stand up tall.
That somewhere, past the noise and lies,
There waits a girl who still can rise.
Who doesn’t shrink or twist or bend
Who doesn’t break just to pretend.
Who speaks, who stays, who doesn’t cry
Who wears her wings,
and learns to fly.
Copyright © butch reichard | Year Posted 2025
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