The voyage is over…

…and suddenly, everything is bright again.

The carapace of metal is cracked open like a shell,

Some unknown fruit made of manufactured sinew.

Foreign hands plunge into the delicate heap of metal,

Rummaging, searching, exploring.

The same way the heap once did, long ago–

When lightning still pulsed through its digital veins.

An otherworldly and perishing stone, they decide;

Made of love and precious metals–

Skipped so far on the cosmic sea

That it found its way to the other side of the shore.

Cratering in a field of upside down trees

In a world a billion steps removed from its home,

It would feel at rest, if it could feel

The unknown soil it had plunged into.

The hands cradle the dead explorer, the voyager–

Carrying it to a new home, pulling it open once more;

Removing something more precious than they know.

A golden disc–delicate, shimmering like a yellow sun,

Inscribed with the whispers of an entire planet of life.

In time, they will find a way to read it–

But for now, they will look up at the endless expanse of stars

and know they are not alone.

I am from easels,

From finger paint and paper.

I am from the water table in my backyard,

Full of collected horseshoe crab shells.

I am from the butterfly weed

That  attracted so many monarchs and hummingbirds.

I am from late night cartoons,

Colors flashing on the screen as my tired form watched.

I’m from mint chocolate chip ice cream

And frozen blueberry Eggo waffles.

I’m from the quiet moments of coloring

And the loud moments of playtime.

I’m from picture books

That I asked to read again and again.

I’m from family dinners.

From the elbow I broke

On my cousin’s playset.

I am from moments and a place

I only have snippets of in my memory. 

Sealed away

In my own room,

Barricaded in by nothing but my own will

And stubbornness;

A part of me realizes now that I was wrong,

But I refuse to admit it

To my mother

And even to myself.

She walks by my door,

Slides a note through hte crack.

It reads:

“We miss you.”

I miss you, too.

“Ma’am”

Who’s that?

Tha’ts not me.

I am still young.

I’m me, can’t you see?

I woke one day, the same

Only now my hair is gray

And clouds cover my youthful eyes.

If only I didn’t look this way

Then they would know that I’m still seventeen.

Seasons change. 

We become different people. We surround ourselves 

With friends, 

Some old, 

Some brand new. 

Leaves fall 

And so do our hopes. 

Branches are left 

Stripped and barren 

Of their protection, 

Just like us. 

We build moments 

Of joy for ourselves, 

But what we often forget 

Is that nothing lasts forever, So when these moments Of happiness 

Change into 

Dark and obscure 

Nightmares, 

We become panicked. 

We get lost in the mazes Of betrayals 

And what ifs 

And broken bonds. 

We find ourselves 

Encased in tears, 

Left alone at night, 

Forever stuck 

In thoughtless loops 

Of wondering and wandering. At our toughest times, 

We forget to keep in mind That changes occur. 

The thought that 

Something better may be ahead, That there lays a light 

At the end of this tunnel, 

Is lost to us. 

At our lowest, 

We’re scared to hope, 

Terrified to be disappointed,

Once again. 

We are too blinded 

By the blizzards 

And disasters 

That leave our world 

Frozen in ice 

To acknowledge 

That spring is 

Just around the corner, To see that flower buds Are emerging, 

Slowly building back up, To bloom. 

We forget that birth and death Are a cycle, 

And that, 

In order to be born again, We must die first.

Es que no sé si me entiendes

A veces ni yo me entiendo

No me se explicar

Y a veces solo quiero gritar.

Me duele haber lastimado  

O haber sido tan egoista

Me duele no ser tan simplista

Que siento que estoy perdiendo mi chispa.

Que me adapto tanto a los demás

Y a quién sabe quién,

Que cuando estoy solo

No sé si me caigo bien.

Me duele que mis amigos se fueron

Y que algunos nisiquiera se despidiera

Que me concentré tanto en ayudar a los demás

Que nadie me ayudó a mi. 

Y lo que más me duele

Que nadie se dio cuenta

Que ya me fui. 

You move like smoke with a plan,
silent swagger, soft as jam.
One blink and you’ve mapped the room
the angles, exits, places to bloom.

Tail up like a question mark,
you patrol the kitchen in the dark.
Nothing gets past your velvet tread,
not the fridge hum, not the creeping thread.

You nap like it’s performance art,
a masterclass in slowing heart.
Sprawled in sunspots, limbs akimbo,
you’ve got that do-nothing glow, that limbo.

You chase dust like it owes you money,
then bat a pen off the edge so funny.
We pretend to scold, but let’s be real:
you run the place with your four-pawed zeal.

Those eyes? Twin moons with ancient codes.
That stare? A riddle in stealth mode.
You don’t do fetch, or “roll,” or “stay”
you’re freelance. You vibe your own way.

At 3am, you’re in full sprint,
tearing through rooms like a caffeine hint.
Then you curl up like a comma, chill,
next to my laptop proof of will.

Oh feline god of “don’t care much,”
yet crave my lap, my voice, my touch.
You’re chaos and comfort, claws and calm,
a tiny storm curled in my palm.

So here’s to you—my roommate, muse,
the one who naps while I hit snooze.
No leash, no rules, no final say
just you, just here, just everyday.

Behind the tangled branches peeks the night sky. 

Distant stars flicker, light-years away. 

I walk between the realm of dreams and the waking world.

A fog lingers at my feet, whispering–dreams or memories? 

Drift between the veil. 

Find her waiting beyond these valleys 

My fevered steps press onward, wandering aimlessly through the dark.

A sudden breeze cuts through the haze,

Cooling my skin. 

And there–beyond the hill–sits the moon. 

Her white glow spills over me like an angel’s kiss.

Finally, I am home. 

I am from the second and the first

The Edwards from which I descend

Birthed by clementines dispersed,

Eaten and enjoyed in portions that depended

Upended by thoughts of despair,

Anxiety Passed down generations

Generations of which I am the heir

I come from ideas so passionate

Passion in fields differing

In sports organizations of Pitt

West Virginia and all I find alluring

Fields of mind like psychology

Fields you find like space and geography

Fields of ever growing ever lasting knowledge

Like fields of growing flowers 

Of blooming interests, hobbies on pathways to college

From Wild and Wonderful

The winding roads of my Mountain Mama

I’m from the laughs of Mama Em

Mama Em who meandered through her Mountain Mama 

I come from Myrna and Sandra

Mom mom and Nana

From Nana’s mama Maw Maw

My birthday buddy from my goo goo’s

Ga ga’s and blabbering Obama

I’m from music

From hit the road jack as a kid

To Prince, Michael, and Queen

From the moments I spent with my family

Whether they’re here or departed

They’re held dear and never discarded

Just like fleetwood

I will never break the chain

I’m from the decisions of those passed

From their anguish and pain

Their success and their nurture

I am from legacies not to be left in vain

I borrow from them the culture

I borrow the lost time

And take hold of the future

I used to pray for you to change, 

to wish for what we once had.

I spent years chasing that one summer, 

but now I’m starting to realize,

People change.

And time was never meant to move backward.

It only moves forward, pulling us further and further apart.

I know we’ll never be the same again, 

but I just hope that one day, 

I won’t care that we won’t.