This isn’t poetry. It’s what I couldn’t carry any other way.
Why I Write:
I never planned to write. Not like this.
It started as survival. I scribbled thoughts between dialysis treatments. I recorded late-night voice notes to myself. They were pieces of things I couldn’t say out loud. It was less about art and more about oxygen.
Somewhere along the way, the scribbles became rhythm.
The rhythm became honesty.
And honesty became the only thing I knew how to offer.
I write because if I don’t, it builds.
Because I know what it feels like to carry too much.
And sometimes, a poem is the only thing that can hold it.
The Process:
There’s no neat desk. No candlelit ritual.
Just moments – usually the broken ones.
Words find me at 3am, when the world is quiet and I’m not.
They show up while walking, or staring out windows. Sometimes, they show up mid-conversation with someone who doesn’t know I’m slowly disappearing inside my head.
I write into my Notes app.
Into the back of receipts.
Onto the walls of days I’m trying to get through.
It’s not a method. It’s a bleed.
What the Words Carry:
My work isn’t crafted to impress.
It’s built to feel.
It holds grief, memory, missed chances, childhood ghosts, and the parts of love that hurt more than they heal.
It circles the same questions I still haven’t answered.
If you’ve ever:
- Felt too much
- Held back what you really needed to say
- Missed someone so deeply it rearranged you
…¦then you already know what I’m writing about.
A Note:
If you’re here, maybe something I wrote made you pause.
Maybe it mirrored something you couldn’t name.
Maybe it made the silence feel a little less heavy.
I don’t have answers. I never will.
But I’ll keep writing toward them