The Quiet Outside

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The Quiet Outside

The empty space of connection, the gathering,
Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe.
It hums with plans already made,
A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go.
My position is fixed: outside. I don’t move;
I only watch the colors of the evening fade
From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light.
My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know.

The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp:
That laughter sounds much louder through a wall—
Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy,
A painful noise. And conversely,
Silence is a heavy thing to wear,
A cloak woven from unsaid words.
It presses down, making breathing difficult.
So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all,
A simple notification, an anchor thrown,
To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there.

The name of “friend,” I embraced fully;
We call them friends; I gave the name with pride,
A sacred title for those to whom I opened life.
I shared my secrets, listened to their own,
Believing in a mutual exchange, a balanced scale.
But now I wonder, standing on the side,
A silent observer of their motion,
If that foundation was solid. The crucial question takes root:
If I am liked, or simply “loosely known.”

A chilling suspicion whispers of self-doubt:
Is there a secret vote I didn’t see?
A quiet pact to leave the chair unfilled?
Or is the truth more passive, more insidious?
Or is the lack of room inside the spree
The consequence of slow emotional detachment?
It feels like The way a dying fire is slowly stilled,
The warmth receding until only ash remains.
The question I need to ask is too large, too sharp to utter;
It stays in my mind, a burning inscription in the dark:
Do I have friends, or people I just know?
Did I misjudge the reality of the bond?
Did I mistake a flicker for a spark?
The uncertainty is exhausting, forcing a decision:
Is it my cue to turn around and go?

The core of the issue is heartbreaking simplicity:
For if they wanted me, they’d find the space,
They’d actively rearrange the elements of their plan.
They’d reach across the gap to pull me through.
This is the ultimate loneliness I face:
There’s nothing lonelier than a familiar face—
A face I thought knew me—
That looks at everything—but never you.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Zombie

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https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Curtain’s Cost

https://www.backstage.com/magazine/article/mask-in-theater-explained-77455

The Curtain’s Cost

I am utterly exhausted by this relentless play,
The heavy curtain of performance drawn too long.
I cannot hold the hollow smile another day,
To mask the deep, the aching emptiness that’s wrong.

The burden of a self that isn’t mine to wear,
To fit the mold you fashioned, cruel and tight,
An agonizing stretch away from who I care
To be—my own identity, eclipsed by your light.
You see a project, a design that must be met,
But tell me, why must the authentic me be cast aside?

I am finished fabricating reasons I have set,
For every thought and every reaction I can’t hide.
I’ve justified my nature to a vacant crowd,
To people who, I now accept, simply don’t care.

The painful truth: my hope was spoken out loud,
A unilateral effort lost on thin, cold air.
I poured my heart to mend what broke between,
But found no shared commitment, no reciprocal tide,
A solitary swimmer in an apathetic scene.

The loneliness, a constant, heavy friend,
A silent weight that settles on my weary chest.
It is an awful life, but if this is the end—
The price of being whole, of being finally blessed
To be myself—then I will pay the cost,
Choosing difficult solitude to rescue what was lost.

A burning, sharp anger now begins to rise,
A desperate need to shatter this profound pain.
But I know with bleak certainty in my own eyes,
That fury would be wasted, dissipating like the rain.

This crushing truth has settled, stark and clear:
Nothing I say, nothing I do or fail to be,
Holds any weight for them, for those who stand so near.
My voice is mute, my actions they refuse to see.

They are truly, utterly indifferent to my strife,
They do not pause to question what my heart endures.
My suffering, my struggle, the very pulse of life,
Is an irrelevance that their coldness secures.

I feel the urge to weep the entire day away,
To curl beneath the covers, let the sadness claim,
But reason whispers of a temporary stay,
No lasting remedy to solve this bitter game.

The torrent of resentment pleads to be set free,
A physical demand I check with weary hand,
Because the simple, crushing truth remains with me:
It will not change a thing across this barren land.

A complete despair now chills me to the bone,
In this cold context, in this life they have defined,
The heartbreaking finality I stand upon alone,
The truth that leaves no solace for the mind:

Nothing matters.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Serendipitous Message

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The Serendipitous Message

A flicker in the digital sea,
A ripple in the ocean vast,
Announced a message, unanticipated, free,
A bridge to years and moments past.
No expectation, no alarm,
A serendipitous, sudden light,
A warmth against the day’s long harm,
Dispelling shadows of the night.

The sender’s name, a long-lost friend,
Appeared upon the silent screen,
A cherished sight without end,
Recalling what had been.
A powerful, unexpected force,
Across the void of silent years,
Washing away the quiet remorse,
And vanquishing old, silent fears.

A wave of joy, a deep embrace,
Surged through the heart, dissolving time,
As memories rushed, swift in their chase,
Like a rushing, vibrant tide sublime.
Laughter shared, a youthful sound,
Secrets told in hushed reply,
A core of trust that could be found,
A sturdy thread beneath the sky.

Across the miles that held them fast,
The vital connection instantly made,
The digital form, a vessel cast,
Where friendship’s enduring flame was played.
Passionately kindled, burning bright,
Unafraid of intervening years,
A testament to affection’s might,
Dispelling all the rising tears.

The quick exchange of grateful hearts,
A quiet acknowledgement of grace,
The inner vision of eyes that starts,
Smiling across time and space.
This sudden reunion, taking flight,
A potent reminder, clear and true,
Some bonds are not defined by sight,
But by a spirit time can’t undo.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

📝 The Echo in the Well

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📝 The Echo in the Well

We walked the same path, pen in hand,
Mind alight, a shared commitment’s sign.
Pilgrims in a lonely, distant land,
Chasing the same bright star, divine.
Our bond, once firm, was forged by toil,
Ink-smudged paper, the screen’s harsh glow,
A hopeful process on a hungry soil,
A private weight the outside doesn’t know.

But when the harvest comes, a sudden wrench,
The seed you sow brings fruit upon my ground.
The garden blooms, across a mutual bench,
But only your name is on the flowers found.
My careful work, the agonizing hours,
My every effort, tragically the same,
Is rendered Invisible, stripped of all its powers,
Swallowed whole by an eclipsing fame.

They gather ’round your posts, a swelling tide,
A deluge of bright approvals, warm and fast.
Endorsements flow, they cannot seem to hide
The joy they feel that you have made it last.
I am a shadow in this scene so bright,
An old contact they vaguely knew, unheard.
They click the heart, basking in your light,
But never glance upon my waiting, silent word.

Our dear ‘mutuals,’ who claimed a deep-felt tie,
Are quick to share your links, to elevate.
They laud your verse beneath the public sky,
While my own craft lies in a silent state.
So forms the question in my empty chest:
Is it the work, the art’s intrinsic worth,
Or merely the loud acclaim they love the best?
The rising star, or the quiet flame of birth?

If friendship is a mirror, clean and true,
Reflecting back the efforts we impart,
What does their universal silence do
To my ignored, distant, lonely star?
If you are seen, and I am a pale ghost,
Haunting the edge of your success and grace,
Who is the friend, and who is merely the host,
Ignoring the guest who waits within the space?|

The heart grows bitter, chilling doubt takes root.
They loved the writer, the idea of the name,
And not the soul, the person who bore the fruit,
In the quiet, solitary, unlit flame.
The bonds we trusted, once so strong and high,
Were not of iron, nor loyalty’s hard line,
But paper, flimsy, easy to pass by,
Disposable in the blinding fire of your shine.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Unwritten Lessons of Connection

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The Unwritten Lessons of Connection

I lost the ones I thought would be
An immutable part of my life’s tapestry,
Woven forever. Their sudden fraying left
A hollow space, of laughter now bereft.
A loss not just of presence, but of promised time,
Of futures guaranteed, of permanence sublime.

I lost the endless, open channel’s flow,
The casual intimate, the profound talk’s low.
The message history remains, a silent tomb,
But the living dialogue has met its doom.
I lost the shared language, the inside joke’s release,
The easy flow of thought that came with sustained peace.

I lost. And yet, a nagging question stays:
How to reclaim it all through monumental days?
More honest now, a deeper query rings:
Do I want the fragments back, the broken things,
Or is this void an opportunity instead,
For a different, stronger rebuilding from the dead?

I am Socially Impaired, a deep deficiency,
No compass for connection’s subtle geography.
I cannot decode the rules that ever shift,
To make a friend, or keep one from the drift.
No knowledge of the delicate dance to start,
Nor sustained effort to hold a drifting heart.

The world outside, a dizzying, digital torrent,
Of career demands, and social lives hyper-currant.
My mind, a labyrinth of static and confusion,
Makes reaching out a Herculean illusion.
The busy world’s quick rhythm, my slow, internal pace,
Exacerbate the disconnect in this human space.

I am Socially Impaired, an alien I feel,
A non-native in a world that seems unreal.
Effortless for others, each social interaction
Requires exhausting, conscious translation.
Lost in this world of confusion, inescapable, vast,
The mechanics of connection hold me fast.

What proper alchemy transforms the passing name,
An acquaintance pleasant, into a trusted flame?
What ritual’s required to solidify the friend,
To confidant and pillar, on whom one can depend?
How to tend this garden so it thrives, not withers thin?
The vital lessons of these bonds were never written in.

In this struggle, I lost my authentic self’s deep call,
My unique longings muffled by the noise of it all.
Lost beneath the effort to be what others sought,
My own desires indistinct, in the battles fought.

I lost the subtle nuances, the unspoken art,
The reading of the body, the comforting hand’s part.
The effortless mirroring of mood, the perfect timing’s grace,
The tools that equip others to master social space.
Without them, I operated blind in the dense fog,
Lost in isolation’s self-doubt, like a log.

But then a tectonic shift occurred within the night,
The fog dispersed, pierced by an internal light.
The finding was no external, sudden grace,
But a revelation born from that empty space.

I Found a core of unshakeable strength inside,
No longer contingent on where others reside.
A self-sustaining power, a bedrock I possess,
To hold and to rely upon in times of stress.

I Found new forms of connection, soul-deep and true,
With people who truly see me, and see me anew.
Bonds built on mutual resilience, not proximity’s plea,
These are the conversations that will not end for me.

I Found a powerful, relentless love, not on condition,
A self-acceptance, a profound self-compassion.
No longer scanning horizons for where worth has fled,
I carry the source within, in the words I have said.
It is a love that will not quit, a permanent estate,
A fortress built from inside, sealed by my own gate.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Echo of Regret: A Vow Against Futility

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The Echo of Regret: A Vow Against Futility

The shadow falls, a failure in my sight,
Disappointment’s echo, haunting day and night.
Regret’s cold hand upon my waking thought,
A hollow dream, the battle that we fought.

A profound, persistent ache resides within,
A deep, visceral wound where grief begins.
Each time the news arrives, a soul has gone,
The numbers climb, yet tragedy lives on.

For those now lost within the heavy fog,
This deep despair, no fleeting shadow slog,
It raises questions that torment the soul:
How could we shield them, how regain control?

What could I, personally, have done to reach,
To pull them back, beyond the final beach?
Why do such vibrant lives, with potential vast,
End in this final, devastating, broken blast?

The pain, a sickening, immediate jolt,
A punch that leaves me breathless and unbolt.
Another one lost, a cycle we can’t cease,
The repetition numbs, yet sharp remains the piece.

A desperate cry: What can be truly done,
When the tide of loss engulfs the rising sun?
We must find answers, a pathway to prevent,
A strategy of hope, with all our power lent.

What can we do, right now, with urgent plea,
To stop this cycle of futility?
They were too young, their promise yet untold,
A song cut short, a story left untold.

Reduced to cold, impersonal distress,
A public crisis we cannot suppress.
The lives they were, a silence left behind,
Deafening echoes of the best of humankind.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Your Prayer Is Bound By Love

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Your Prayer Is Bound By Love

When darkness falls upon a soul you know,
And misconduct is the seed that they sow,
When actions pierce the better self you see,
And they depart from how they ought to be,
A higher call demands your swift response,
Beyond the simple bitterness of offense.

Specifically, when they project their strife,
Inflicting turmoil on another life,
When pain and discontent are thrust outside,
And unkindness is the path where they ride—
And when their negativity is aimed at you,
The target of the anger they accrue—
The time for action is not a fight,
But deep engagement in the spirit’s light.
The clear command is given from above:
You should pray. Your prayer is bound by love.

This is a prayer with purpose dual-faced,
For strength to face the hurt that is embraced.
Pray earnestly to guard your inner soul,
For wisdom, grace, and to achieve your goal:
To stand against injustice, firm and true,
Lest roots of bitterness take hold of you.
And simultaneously, with fervent heart,
Pray unceasingly to heal their broken part.

Petition for their spirit’s restoration,
For sight, repentance, and illumination.
Pray for their clarity, that the dark fog
That clouds their judgment might begin to jog.
May truth reveal the nature of their deed,
The bitter pain that plants the hurtful seed.

Your prayer’s an act of purity and might,
A divine request for what is good and right.
Pray that the toxic urge to hold offense,
All hatred, vengeance, and poor recompense,
Be fully purged from where your feelings lie.
Pray that true peace, the peace that reaches high,
That surpasses knowledge, may reside within,
A shield against the chaos and the sin.
And pray for grace to grant them full release,
To find compassion for their lack of peace,
Recognizing that the hurt they impart
Is but a symptom of their wounded heart.

You know the truth; denial finds no space,
A certainty of wrong you have to face.
They operate outside their healthy sphere,
Not as the self they ought to hold so dear.
You know they act as wounded, lost, and frail,
Beyond a doubt, they stumble and they fail.
Given this truth, this knowledge you possess,
Your duty is to fully intercess.
You need to pray.

This sacred work requires commitment strong,
Independent of who says that you are wrong.
You need to pray, though you are ostracized,
Misunderstood, or wholly unadvised.
You need to pray, though they who cause the woe
Discourage faith and bid your efforts slow.
Resolve within, in the core of your deep soul,
That you will never yield to their control.
Let your prayer be a sanctuary, ever near,
A tireless beacon, banishing all fear,
For your own soul, and for the troubled one
Whose inner struggle means the harm is done.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Ashes and Dust

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Ashes and Dust

It was not a solo journey,
It was meant for both of us to keep.
A path shared, a mutual destiny,
A bond where promises run deep.
We walked side by side, our footprints one,
A single narrative of hope begun.

But the story broke, the path was closed,
I stood on the chasm’s crumbling brim,
As a silhouette, slowly transposed
Into the inevitable, growing dim.
The ‘we’ became an ‘I’, a hollow sound,
In this desolate, forsaken ground.

Ashes and dust are all that stay
Of the bright fire we held in trust,
A barren landscape, grey today,
Where life dissolved in the air’s cruel gust.
The physical presence is no more,
Leaving the grit of loss upon the floor.

Then voices come from the periphery,
Offering platitudes in careful phrase.
They say, “It is not personal, you see,”
A necessary turn in cosmic haze.
A consequence, unavoidable and stark,
A wheel that turns and leaves no malice mark.

They speak these words, so cold and clinical,
To soothe a wound they cannot comprehend.
Do they expect a heart, now critical,
To take this lie, this foolishness they send?
To call abandonment ‘impersonal’ then claim
It takes the searing edges from the pain?

It is a construct, fragile and designed
To shield their own complicity from view.
Lies and more lies are spun to leave behind
Their failures of commitment, wholly true.
The architects of ruin hide their face,
Behind the veil of fate or bureaucratic space.

They see my silence and begin to doubt,
Why I won’t trust their flimsy, weak assurance;
They wonder why my quiet stays throughout
Their clumsy, hollow show of endurance.
Is their concern a genuine desire to know
The depth of the betrayal’s silent blow?

Or is the query just a social art,
A reflex uttered in a scripted play?
Do they care for me, the broken, scattered part,
Or am I just a failure they wish away?
I let the fine, particulate dust stream in—
The dust of forgetting, where true wounds begin.

I scan the empty space, a vacant stare,
Where is the circle that was meant to hold?
I know they exist, breathing their own air,
In parallel worlds of comfort, brave and bold.
Not here with me, not for me in this plight,
Not in the core of this seismic, lonely night.

It was meant to be the two of us, you see,
Walking the sunset, weathering the storm.
The fundamental premise of our entity.
But I was left alone, without the warm,
Not just abandoned, but deliberately selected
For solitary confinement, unprotected.

A cold clarity begins its slow, strange birth,
The isolation may not be a curse,
But a final, hard-won gift of self-worth.
Maybe it’s best to sift these ashes terse,
Unbound by promises that turned to frail dust.
In this quiet, hard-won peace is final trust.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Shattered Image

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The Shattered Image

The depth of my disappointment is immense,
I truly thought you were a person of integrity,
Whose every action would align, with no pretense,
With the strong character you seemed to be.
“I thought you were better” is too mild to say;
I saw in you a loyalty I sought to find,
A moral standard now just dust and clay,
A shattered image of a perfect mind.

The thing you did, or failed to do, you see,
Was not a simple letdown; “it crushed me” whole.
It was a devastating blow to my reality,
A chasm swallowing my trusting soul.
I had invested trust and boundless hope,
An extraordinary quantity of “faith in you,”
To find it misplaced, I now must grope,
A personal failure, though the fault is true.

Our bond, which I so dearly held and prized,
Was based on a belief in shared pure light.
“I thought we were actually friends,” I realized,
Now every memory feels contaminated, blight.
Each moment shared, each secret I confessed,
Feels poisoned by the knowledge I now hold,
That “that’s a lie, and it’s always been a lie,” unblessed.
A friendship’s illusion, turning cold.

My estimation of you reached the stars,
“Maybe I thought more highly of you than you think of yourself.”
I held you past your self-imposed high bars,
More than you were capable of from your shelf.
I believed you held a goodness and a strength,
A beautiful essence that does not exist.
“Maybe I thought more of you than you truly are,” at length,
The gap between the ideal and the actual persists.

My admiration wasn’t born from my own plight,
For I appreciated what I thought you were.
I never claimed perfection, or to be the light:
“I don’t think I am special; I thought you were.”
I know my faults; I am not so grand:
“I don’t think I am great; I thought you were.”
My self-regard is low, I understand:
“I don’t think highly of myself, but I thought highly of you.”

The burden of this pain, in a dark way,
Rests on my shoulders for this foolish crime.
“I guess I was wrong to put that much faith in you,” I say.
The name of “friend” was sacred, but I wasted time:
“I guess I was wrong to call you a friend.”
My error was this desperate, naive dream,
That you would prove me right until the end:
“I guess I was wrong; I wanted you to be better.”

And so I cycle through this self-inflicted doubt,
Were my expectations too far out of reach?
“I guess I was wrong, maybe it’s just me,” I shout.
But the ultimate truth that the facts now preach:
“I guess I was wrong; I put too much faith in you.”
I took your potential for your very core:
“I guess I was wrong, believing in you,” it’s true.
I can’t believe in you anymore.

The desolate conclusion is the clear refrain:
“I guess I was wrong.” A simple, crushing sound.
For in your actions, truth gives way to pain:
“I guess I meant nothing to you” that I have found.
The end of my faith is the end of what we were.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd