The Words Churn

Words don’t line up.
They twist and blur.
They fight me hard.
I keep tools close.

Dictionaries steady me.
Spell and Grammar Apps—

back me up.
I drag sense out.
I force words through.

I build poems tough.
Knuckles down daily.
Tools help steady.
The grind is mine.

The road shifts constantly.
I walk it anyway.
Dyslexia hits hard.
I claim lines regardless.

I break old styles.
I forge new ones.
My voice decides form.
I write on, unshaken.

In the depths of the night, you sought solace from my embrace.
Maybe it was merely a figment of my imagination’s space.
I could have been playing a role—a deception of my own design—
But secretly, my love for you was always intertwined.
That’s why I chose to flee, to avoid the bitter blow
Of discovering your love for another, causing me to go.

Yet within the realms of my mind, I continue to enact the play—
A tale of you and me, perhaps destined to remain a dream, they say.
Nevertheless, I persist as the leading man, while you…
You are my leading lady—my stolen Princess too.
Always at my side, granting me access to your heart’s shrine,
Fuelling my burning desires as I continue to dream and pine.

The script is etched upon my soul, the lines committed to memory.
You, the star of the show, performing flawlessly—perfectly.
I have played your leading man, narrating stories of love’s plight:
Act One—the magical encounter, Cupid’s arrow taking flight.
Our hearts entwined, love’s seed sown deep to the core.
Act Two—a concoction of dreams, our desires to explore.

And in my reveries, still I dream—
Endlessly chasing an illusion that may never gleam.

The bull in my heart, steady and bold,
Has carried me from boy to man.
When fear closes in, it stands its ground
And reminds me I’m stronger than I think.

I fear everything, yet nothing at all—
With that bull inside, I don’t back down.
Whatever comes, in body or mind,
I meet it head‑on and keep moving.

I’ll guard what I’ve been trusted to protect,
Holding fast with that quiet strength.
I won’t be shaken or pushed aside;
The bull in my heart keeps me upright.

So let the trials come as they will—
That bull has never once flinched.
It gives me courage to face the day,
And with it in my chest, I stand whole.

A Deck Chair is a chair, a simple design,
With a purpose so clear, its function defined.
No complicated features or intricate sections,
Just a seat for reclining, without objections.

It comes with no instructions, an intuitive creation,
A symbol of leisure, a mark of relaxation.
In vibrant hues, its presence is alive,
With its name embroidered, a proclamation to strive.

From shores to gardens, to bustling streets,
In various languages, its identity meets.
An international flair, loved by many a hand,
A resting spot sought, amidst the shifting sand.

In diverse environments, it finds its abode,
From mountain retreats to the ocean’s abode.
But at times, it can be quite a challenge,
A test of resolve, a moment to manage.

Yet once mastered, its rewards are unveiled,
For it beckons with solace, when stress is assailed.
Under the warm glow of the benevolent sun,
It basks, embracing tranquility as one.

Yet beware of the rain, its foe from above,
For it dampens the fabric, disrupting its love.
A creature of fair weather, it yearns for the light,
But under dark clouds, it can crumble in fright.

As I ponder upon all these traits it shares,
The parallel becomes clear, stirring my cares.
For just like a Deck Chair, I begin to see,
That I, too, have facets reminiscent of thee.

A vessel for comfort, a seeker of ease,
In pursuit of serenity, like a gentle breeze.
With flaws and strengths, like a Deck Chair’s plight,
Fragile under pressure, but resilient in light.

Let’s embrace this revelation with pondering stare,
That perhaps, just perhaps, I am a Deck Chair.
In our shared existence, a bond now formed,
For in its simplicity, a truth is adorned.

The Weight Below
for those who hold what others cannot see

He stands where silence meets the sky,
a rope wound tight through trembling hands—
beneath him, stone and memory fly,
suspended by his lone command.

The rock, a heart too scared to fall,
wrapped in threads of duty, grief, and grace,
hangs heavy in the air’s thin call,
a burden none but he can face.

The cliff is time. The rope, resolve.
The clouds, the ghosts that whisper “yield.”
Yet still he leans, he will not solve
the pain—just hold it, unrevealed.

For some are anchors, not by choice,
but by the shape their soul became.
They bear the weight, without a voice,
and never ask for love or name.

The Girl Who Held Her Heart
her voice, fierce and fragile

They say the heart should learn to fly,
but mine was carved from deeper things.
It never asked the wind or sky—
it only knew what silence brings.

I tied it tight with threads of flame,
and held it over time’s abyss.
Not for glory. Not for shame.
But for the love I couldn’t miss.

Each beat, a memory I chose
to carry, not to cast away.
Each tremor, proof that even those
who break still find a way to stay.

So, if you see me on the edge,
don’t ask me why I didn’t fall.
I held my heart. I made my pledge.
And that, my love, is worth it all.

The Boy Who Held the Fall
his voice, quiet but resolute

I stood where silence dared to break,
the rope a whisper in my hand.
The weight below was not a mistake—
it was the part I understand.

I did not ask to be the wall,
nor crave the cliff beneath my feet.
But something in me heard the call
to hold what others might delete.

It wasn’t mine, this heavy stone,
but I became its final thread.
I bore it so she’d not alone
be dragged into the dark instead.

And if I vanish with the strain,
no songs, no statues, no acclaim—
just know I held her heart, her pain,
and never once let go her name.

She Holds Her Heart
for the girl who would rather break than let go

She stands where endings meet the mist,
a cliff beneath, a sky above—
her fingers wrapped in rope and twist,
the burden: all she dared to love.

Below, her heart—a stone in flight,
too heavy now to rise or fall.
She holds it still with quiet might,
though silence strains to take it all.

The clouds don’t ask. The wind won’t speak.
She leans into the ache alone.
Each breath, a vow she will not break,
each tremble, carved in flesh and bone.

She does not beg the world to see,
nor cast her weight into the void.
She simply holds what she must be—
the girl, the cliff, the heart destroyed

They ran too late, the train pulled free,
A shrug, a sigh—what will be, will be.
But fate, that rogue with playful grin,
Let two lost glances draw them in.

A smile raised like morning light,
He said, “Coffee then?”—not quite polite.
She laughed, “Why not?”—and so began
A tale not written, yet surely planned.

Steam curled from cups, warm hands near,
An hour passed, the world unclear.
But words flowed soft, like rivers bend,
Two strangers found a common end.

Same train, same track, same destination,
Three hours more of conversation.
Stories shared, and laughter spun,
As if the journey had just begun.

Arrival came, the moment split,
A gentle kiss, no need to quit.
Numbers passed with trembling grace,
Hope tucked inside a folded space.

Perhaps that train they missed was fate,
A pause, a chance to recalibrate.
For sometimes love, not loud or grand,
Begins with coffee, and a hand.