The threshold of the door is wide and bright, A circle gathers, laughing in the glow, And I am here, caught somewhere in the light, Desiring more than just the names I know. I see the surface, beautiful and clear, The pleasant currents where we dive and play, But oh, I want the ocean deep from here— I want to wash the quiet guard away.
I want the late-night, sitting-on-the-floor, Unvarnished truths, the fears we never speak, To open wide the heavy, bolted door, And show the places where the walls are weak. I long for ties that weather through the storm, The kind of tether time cannot undo, Where sitting in the silence keeps us warm, And being known means being valued, too.
But heavy armor isn’t easily shed, And stepping closer feels like stepping blind. The words I mean to say stay in my head, While careful, safer phrases wait behind. It is so hard to pull the veil aside, To offer up the soft, unshielded part, To trust the spaces where I usually hide And lay the raw geography of heart.
So here I stand, a newcomer at bay, With arms that ache to open and extend. I take a breath, and try to find a way To cross the bridge from stranger into friend.
Every now and then, people look at the analytics of a small blog and I read the report and it says, “4” next to blog. But to me? That doesn’t matter at all.
The point isn’t about massive, viral numbers. The point is that someone out there is genuinely interested in my work. When I look at those numbers, I don’t see a small statistic—I see real individuals who chose to take a few minutes out of their busy days to step into my world. Whether you came for the poetry or the stories, you took the time to read it. And from the bottom of my heart, I pray that you truly enjoyed it and that you want to read more.
The Reality of the Writing Dream
We’ve all heard the complaints in the writing community: “I’m just not making a lot of money doing this.” And sure, of course I want to sell books! Writing is an investment. Between hiring professional editors and handling all the behind-the-scenes production, putting your work out there isn’t free.
But money isn’t the driving force. If I had the chance, I would love nothing more than to write full-time.
By day, I am a middle school math teacher. It’s not physical labor, but let me tell you, it is an intense mental workout! A big part of my job involves working with specialized students and writing IEPs. Ironically, despite being a creative writer, that kind of rigid, academic writing and precise verbal wording is something I really have to push myself to do perfectly.
I often think about how wonderful it would have been if I could have been a stay-at-home, full-time writing mom when my kids were little, drafting chapters while they napped. But life had a different timeline. Now, my youngest is about to turn 13 and is much more independent. Writing full-time now would mean having the freedom to never miss a single doctor’s appointment, school play, music concert, or art show. It would mean being completely present for every milestone.
Looking Into My World (And the Ultimate Compliment)
Ultimately, those 4 to 24 people who click on my blog are doing something incredibly special: you are looking into a little piece of my world. I saw 4-24, and that is because my lowest view is 4 and my highest is 24.
My biggest goal right now is simply to market more and help more people find my work—not for ego, but because I want to share these places and characters with the universe. I want someone to be genuinely excited about the stories I create.
In fact, you want to know what the ultimate praise would be for me?
Some authors don’t like it, but if someone ever loved my characters enough to start writing fanfiction or role-playing in the universe I built… man, that would be the highest honor. To know that my world sparked a flame in someone else’s creativity? That is why I do this.
So, to my dedicated handful of readers: thank you for stepping into my world. I hope you love it here, and I can’t wait to share what’s coming next.
Across the sea, a jungle green, A young man fought, a sight unseen. My father, there, in Vietnam’s hold, A story etched, a heart of gold.
The weight of war, a heavy pack, He carried burdens on his back. The sounds of fire, the cries of pain, Aching memories, etched like rain.
But courage bloomed where shadows fell, He faced his fears and fought them well. For comrades’ sake, for duty’s call, He stood his ground, he gave his all.
And when he came back home at last, The war’s grim toll, a shadowed past. Unspoken battles, burdens deep, Yet in his eyes, a love to keep.
He built a life, a world anew, The strength he bore, shone clear and true. My father, soldier, quiet, strong, In him, I see where I belong.
This ode to him, a whispered pride, For all he faced, for all he tried. A son’s respect, a heart’s embrace, For the hero’s journey, etched on his face.
I ask about you. Wonder how you are? I wonder where you are? And if you think of me? The truth hurts as I know, You never ask about me.
For they say, I am never in your thoughts. My name is never in your mouth. I want to rage, cry and scream. I want to shake you and show you,
What you lost. But chances are you won’t care. I was never important and a thought. All I could offer was a loyal friend But that was never enough for you.
The walls are leaning inward, though the level says they’re straight, And the air feels thick and heavy, like a physical, dull weight. It’s a static in the marrow, it’s a ringing in the ears, A list of “what-ifs” blooming into catastrophic fears. The door feels like a mountain, and the phone a jagged stone, The mind builds up a prison that it’s crafted all alone.
But the kettle starts its humming, and the clock begins to chime, The world doesn’t pause its spinning just to give me extra time. So I breathe a shallow rhythm, count the floorboards near my feet, And find the tiny pocket where the fear and duty meet. It isn’t that the shaking stops or shadows go away, It’s the shaking hands that reach out to begin the work of day.
I carry it like luggage—bulky, frayed, and overfilled, Across the bridge of “must-do,” where the panic isn’t stilled. I take a single, trembling step, then find the strength for two, Doing all the things I need, while the fear is coming through. For courage isn’t silence where the anxious thoughts are gone, It’s the shivering soul that tells itself: regardless, carry on.
I must strongly object to the pervasive and deeply problematic use of militaristic metaphors when discussing cancer and the individuals affected by it. Phrases that have become deeply ingrained in our cultural lexicon—”They are a cancer survivor,” “They lost their battle,” or “They won their battle”—carry a harmful and often painful subtext. This war-like language, framing a biological process as a personal combat, inevitably implies that the outcome—survival or death—is purely a result of the individual’s effort, willpower, or “fighting spirit.”
This is not a purely academic critique; it is profoundly personal. My mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer, and she passed away when I was just eleven years old. To this day, every time I hear this kind of terminology used, I feel a visceral, sickening dread. The devastating implication embedded in these phrases suggests that to say someone “lost the battle” can be interpreted as meaning my mother didn’t fight hard enough to live, or that her will to survive was somehow weaker than that of those who are deemed “survivors.” This places a moral judgment on a medical outcome.The Inaccuracy and Cruelty of the Narrative
This narrative is not only insensitive; it is medically inaccurate and inherently cruel. It functions to shift the blame for a biological failure onto the shoulders of the patient. Cancer is a complex, brutal, and often indiscriminate disease, not a fair fight where sheer determination dictates the victor. Its progression and the efficacy of its treatment are dictated by a multitude of factors entirely outside a patient’s control:
Genetics and Biology: The specific mutation, the tumor’s aggressiveness, and the patient’s individual biological response to therapy are paramount.
Access to Care: Socioeconomic factors, proximity to specialized medical centers, insurance coverage, and the ability to afford necessary care play a critical, often life-determining, role.
Effectiveness of Treatment: The simple fact is that current medical science does not have a cure for every cancer, and sometimes the best available treatments fail.
To suggest that a patient’s sheer willpower can overcome these biological and systemic realities is a dangerous and emotionally devastating distortion. It is a form of victim-blaming that compounds the suffering of the patient.Diminishing Suffering and Compounding Grief
By labeling those who succumb to the disease as “losers” of a “battle,” we perform a profound injustice. We diminish the incredible suffering they endured, invalidate the immense strength and endurance they did exhibit through grueling treatments, and unnecessarily compound the grief of their loved ones. This language creates a false, black-and-white dichotomy where survival is heralded as a victory of spirit and death is tragically mischaracterized as a personal failure of will.
It is vital that we consciously and collectively adopt a more compassionate, realistic, and respectful vocabulary. We need a language that acknowledges the brutal reality of the disease without assigning moral or personal failure to those whose bodies, despite their strongest will and every medical intervention, could not withstand it.
We should move away from the language of war and toward the language of support, journey, and resilience. We should focus on:
Supporting individuals through their medical and emotional experience.
Celebrating their resilience and the strength they demonstrate in facing a severe illness.
Respecting the outcome of a fight that was never on even terms.
A Broader Call for Linguistic Change
The “battle language” is not confined only to cancer; it is pervasive throughout the medical community and public discourse when discussing many chronic or life-threatening illnesses. We see individuals “fighting” heart disease, “struggling” with addiction, or “conquering” mental illness. This pattern of militaristic framing needs to be fundamentally changed within the medical community, journalistic reporting, and everyday conversation.
Moving forward, our goal must be to foster a vocabulary that recognizes the complex interplay of biology, medicine, and human endurance, a vocabulary that is rooted in empathy rather than judgment. We must honor the full spectrum of human experience with illness—the strength, the pain, the medical realities, and the dignity—without defaulting to a cruel metaphor that punishes the dead and pressures the living.
The Uneven Field
The words are heavy, like a soldier’s gear, But she was not a general or a scout. I was eleven, drowning in a fear That militaristic metaphors leave out.
They call it a “battle,” a “war” to be won, A “fight” where the spirit must lead. But what of the mother, the work left undone, When the body is all that can bleed?
If survival is victory, what is the grave? A “loss”? A “failure” of will? To say that she “lost” is to say she wasn’t brave, That her heart wasn’t ready to thrill.
But biology isn’t a “fair-weather” friend, And cells do not listen to “fight.” It’s genetics and access that dictate the end, Not how hard she gripped for the light.
I carry the “visceral dread” in my bones, The “sickening” weight of the phrase. The “victim-blaming” in hushed, somber tones That haunts all my motherless days.
She didn’t “lose.” She simply endured A “journey” no armor could shield. A “resilience” that never was truly assured On such an uneven field.
Take back the metaphors, sharpen the tongue, Find “compassion” instead of the “sword.” For the girl who was eleven, whose world was unstrung, By a “battle” she couldn’t afford.
The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
The ink is a pulse, a rhythmic beat, Where worlds are born and shadows meet. For ten long years, the stories have grown, In quiet rooms and the great unknown— From the dark of the woods to the stars above, Built with a decade of labor and love.
There is a lightning strike in the chest When a character finally stands the test, When a sentence clicks like a skeleton key And the soul of the book is finally free. I know these bones, I know they are strong, I’ve carried these voices for far too long.
But the silence is heavy, a vast, open sea, Between the heart of the book and the eyes that should see. I’ve woven the magic, I’ve mapped out the stars, I’ve bled on the pages and counted the scars. I stand at the window, my hands on the glass, Watching the world and the witnesses pass.
“Look here,” I whisper, “the bridge is now built, Full of wonder and terror, of glory and guilt.” I know it is good—I have felt the fire burn, I’ve earned every chapter and every sharp turn. The thrill is the making, the joy is the craft, But the hope is the reader on this lonely raft.
So I’ll keep on shouting into the dark, Fanning the ember and chasing the spark. For the stories are ready, the gates are ajar, Waiting for someone to see who we are.
