11/13/2025
Been fu***ng ages since I tried this...but here we go....
Six years ago and one day ago
I was a ghost on a carpeted floor
a bottle of pills on my left,
Fireball on my right,
and nothing but silence in the middle
except the sound of a man deciding
breath was optional.
Both bottles were empty.
So was I.
Since then, every fu***ng morning
I’ve woken up and wrestled the mirror
shame on one shoulder,
mistakes on the other,
and the whole choir of could-have-dones
and shouldn’t-have-saids
humming their discordant hymn in my ears.
I faced the past,
squinted at the future,
and met the eyes of a kid
who almost lost the only steady thing
he had in a world tipping sideways...
me.
I faced my lies,
my truths,
the lines in between where the ink smudged
and my fingerprints were still wet.
I grew.
I screamed.
Hell, sometimes I cracked open like an egg
and let the poison spill out
just to see if anything inside me
still glowed.
People love to talk about seeds
little metaphors of hope,
green promises wrapped in soft rain and gentle soil.
But they never write about the hurt of sprouting,
of punching your way through the dirt
while weeds-old habits, old ghosts, old wounds
wrap around your ankles
and whisper you back into the dark.
Nobody writes the poems
about fighting upward
with dirt in your teeth
and s**t under your nails.
And yet—
here we are.
Six years later.
Still telling stories.
Still digging through the dirt.
Still pulling the weeds
with blistered hands
to make a little room
for something-anything
to grow beside us.
We’ve learned the truth
that getting past the s**t and the soil
isn’t poetic.
It’s work.
Messy, unglamorous,
unholy work.
But worth it?
Yeah.
At least…
I think so.
