Poetry

I wish I hated you.

It would be easier.

I wish you did something wrong.

I hoped I could be mad at you.

And after time, I could say you did,

this anyway.

But honestly, you were great.

I can’t say anything, but I wish I

could hate.

If I could I would.

It could help me move on.

But the only thing I hate is how you

were great.

You took obnoxiousness and

hugged it, then gave me power to

control it.

I honestly feel like I wasn’t feeling

till I met you.

You took scribbles and set them

straight.

You lined it all up perfectly on a

page.

And I just wish I could hate all that

you are because I can’t stand the fact

you were the first person to put

me at ease.

I met you and you told me to

breath.

You gave me life and stability.

The way you mellowed me out it

felt you were meant for me.

If I could only hate you, I could

pretend you didn’t exist, I wouldn’t

be able to relive the moments of

me internally screaming, and you

just deciding to listen.

I wish I hated you–then I could live.

The bottles there in front of him,

It’s his kryptonite

The one thing that can break him down no matter what.

It is poison.

Like the poison apple in Snow White, the bottle of booze is his.

The one thing that can break him of every good bone he might have once had.

It strips him of his skin and brings out this monster of the version he was,

With horns and red fury coming from him.

It is the shell of the version I once saw as my father.

Survival is more than breath in my lungs;

It’s the pain of waking to another day,

The struggle to gather pieces of a shattered soul,

The quiet battles fought where no one could see.

They see the surface, the semblance of strength,

But they don’t feel the weight of the nights,

The endless ache that resounds in my chest,

The ghosts of what might have been.

“But you survived,” they say,

As if survival is a badge of honor,

As if it erases the wounds,

As if it mends the deep-rooted sorrow.

Yes, I survived, but at what cost?

The girl I once was is lost,

And what remains is just a shadow,

A ghost wandering through a life,

Forever altered.

So, when they say, “But you survived,”

I smile and nod,

While inside, I mourn the girl

Who did not.

I hate the way you control me,

And the way you make me feel small.

I hate the way you smile so sweetly,

As if nothing’s wrong at all.

I hate the way you hurt me,

With words that cut so deep.

I hate the way you ask for forgiveness,

While my wounds still make me weep.

I hate the way you twist my thoughts,

And make me doubt what’s true.

I hate the way you demand apologies,

For things I didn’t do.

I hate the way you pretend to care,

While causing so much pain.

I hate the way you make me feel,

Like I’m the one to blame.

I hate the way you wear that mask,

Of kindness and of grace.

I hate the way you try to hide,

The cruelty in your embrace.

I hate the way you make me feel,

Like I’m never good enough.

I hate the way you break me down,

When life is already tough.

But most of all, I hate that I see,

A reflection of you in me.

For despite all the pain, I can’t deny,

I’m your daughter—just like you, am I.

Daisies growing in the garden,

Bluebirds singing in the sky,

Gentle breeze that whispers softly,

Clouds like cotton drifting by.

Sunlight dances on the petals,

Shadows stretch and slowly creep,

Morning wakes with quiet laughter,

Nature’s song, so pure, so deep.

Every leaf and every flower,

Tells a tale of love and grace,

In the garden, time stands still,

And the world feels a peaceful place.

A lie.

That’s all.

It’s a lie.

False.

Not real.

You’ll have it—

Or so you think.

Until something happens,

And it all comes swarming back:

Bittersweet memories—

Each a comb of honey guarded by an army of stingers.

Drawing you in, only to be reminded

Of why it fell apart—

Now clouded, hardened

Soak it warm,

But the sweetness won’t restore.

You know too much now—

Too much has changed to go back,

An army of stingers,

Known as the pricks of time:

New and old feelings,

Questions never answered; contested,

And ones you never asked.

You know—

Closure isn’t real.

It’s not all pain and tears—

Don’t you know that?

Laughs and laughs,

So many laughs

Had only that day,

Never again.

The clock ticked,

Slid past twelve,

And despair swelled in me,

Plaguing you—

In silence, we sat,

Thoughts collecting,

Staring at our faint reflections

Across a room of empty chairs—

Being asked what’s wrong:

Placing it on you,

Asking you to fix what

Broke.

What I broke,

By being friends with you.

O architects of progress, artisans of code,

Who fabricate the veins of cities with glass and steel

And measure the heavens through mechanical eyes.

Have you grown so attuned with the hum of your machines

That the echoes of wisdom, ancient and enduring,

Fade to whispers beneath innovation’s roar?

Who constructs the world with precise hands

But cold, resolute logic.

When did you abandon such astonishment?

When did the art of asking “Why?”

Become obsolete, entombed under

The cursory conviction of “How?”

Innovation builds towers that pierce the blue sky,

Yet the foundations palpitate and buckle.

For what is technology

Without the cornerstone of meaning?

What is advancement

Without a passionate compass to guide it?

Forging onward, blind and triumphant.

Daedalus warned us

That even the most magnificent flight

Will tumble without wisdom’s restraint.

In pursuit of the next frontier,

The Humanities are left in the wings.

Muzzling the poets,

And abandoning historians locked within their archives,

Omitted, like relics of an obsolete era.

And now, in a haste to vanquish the unknown,

Stories that once tethered humanity are dismissed

Of their purpose, their impetus.

You conceive machines to write,

But can they apprehend the breadth of our fervor and pleasure?

Algorithms to mimic thought,

But can they seize and latch onto the burden of free will?

Can they probe the morality of their own creation?

Humanity has been disassembled

Into data points, graphs, and lines

And culture, values, and art reduced to trifles.

The languages of these formidable empires

Now foreign vernaculars.

This is not a reproach, but an invitation.

Returning to the wisdom of those who came before.

Not as relics, but as guides,

Not as obstacles, but as partners

In the journey toward true progress.

Rome did not collapse because its aqueducts crumbled.

It fell when its citizens ceased

To question their purpose and corruption spread,

Athens did not perish

Because its warriors were technologically outmatched.

It perished when its thinkers fell silent,

When the dialogues of free men

Were replaced by conquest and complacency.

And so, too, will we perish

If we do not return

To the wisdom of the humanities.

—

Oh, heed me!

I am philosophy,

Your thinking, your reasoning, your thoughts

Whispering beneath the clamor of invention,

Urging you to ask not just what you can generate,

But whether you must.

I am literature,

A vessel of truth

Veiled in the folds of fiction,

Truth that science cannot quantify.

I am history,

A mirror returning your follies,

Warning you of the cyclical nature

Of hasty gratification and ignorance.

I am culture,

A kaleidoscope of perspectives

That transcends borders

And weaves humanity together

In ways your equations could never imagine.

For the Humanities

I am diminished to electives,

Paltry credits to be obtained and forsaken.

But I am not discretionary.

I am the breath in your lungs

And the pulse in your veins.

Without me, advancements are futile,

Knowledge, fractured.

—

We study genomes,

But cannot decipher

The poetry inscribed within them.

We build bridges,

But cannot traverse the chasm

That separates two hearts.

We conquer space,

But leave souls

Anchored to a desolate shore.

Education is not a machine to be programmed,

But a garden to be tended.

The sciences may give us fruit,

But without the humanities,

The soil beneath us will rot.

The tree of knowledge will wither,

Its branches splintering under the weight

Of unchecked ambition,

For without the Humanities,

We lose the morals that once gave it meaning.

Prometheus bestowed humanity fire,

Not merely for survival,

But for illumination.

And yet, here we stand,

Blinded by our own brilliance,

Stumbling through the darkness

Because we have snuffed out

The light of acuity.

—

I am the conscience

We have abandoned.

I am the question

We no longer ask.

I am the voice

That warns us of ruin

Even as we revel

In our fleeting triumphs.

Heed me now,

For the day will come

When machines will fail,

When cities will crumble,

When stars once charted

Will mock the arrogance

With their piercing indifference.

—

And in that final silence,

We will scour

For the poets,

For the philosophers,

For the storytellers

Who could have taught us

How to mourn, how to rebuild,

How to find meaning

In the rubble of a broken world.

But by then,

It will be gone.

The voices that once sang

Of love, of loss, of redemption

Will be vanquished to the void,

And we will finally understand

What we cast aside.

For a future without the Humanities

Is no future at all.

She waited.

When she was five and she was getting to know the world’s concepts,

She learned of love,

Not the kind of love she got from her parents and the so-called one of her siblings,

No—she learned of the love that the Disney princesses had,

The one the heroes risked their lives for,

The love that will take residence in her heart by someone entirely different.

So, when Love knocked on her door, she did not hesitate,

She opened it and jumped right into his arms.

She did not look to the sides, for this was Love, not an oncoming vehicle on the street.

And so, she did not see the arrows hiding in the dark aiming for her heart,

Nor the wrecking ball on the right, swinging toward her direction, waiting to turn her life upside down.

No, she stayed in Love’s arms and allowed him to lead her on a journey with a heart,

Allowed him to create the illusion and veil of absolute perfection,

So perfect that she did not notice the veil coming off when Love left,

Just the blast of arrows and the weight of the wrecking ball she failed to see.

Hopeful, curious, and intrigued, he approaches with sincere intent.

Well-mannered, playful, and witty, she entertains the experience.

Back and forth banter the two share day and night.

One speaks, the other hears, typical behavior, untypical heart.

Open sharing of their lives, typical behavior, uncommon practice.

Seeing signs that don’t exist, opening up to something more.

He believed in the fantasy presented; she played the part well.

Words that cut straight to the heart, the resonance echoing through the soul.

Nothing more than just “honest compliments.”

The pain was severe, but his heart still bled for her.

Conscience of the hurt she causes, speaking full words with such empty intent.

And yet persisted all the same.

And yet he let it all the same.

Believing in the fantasy, knowing it to be just that.

Reality struck like mortar.

The blatant truth couldn’t be any more clear.

He was never the priority; he never had her heart.

For it belonged to another.

The heart bled till it ran dry.

Another lesson learned the hard way.

Don the masked helm,

For today’s game is a circus.

What was it said for this game filled,

With creatures in years of this show?

Here, in the Circus, the freaks are

Kings.

The Trope’s become parts of the game

By living the costumes, splendors first

Donned only mildly unique to this

Ringleader

Not the world of fantastics from all who

Entered

Since opening night began

They have all learned to cloak

Falls and Flaws:

On full display become featured acts,

Favorites encored by crowds

Between the finished trick and the next

Show

Tamed beasts and trope doff

The masquerade, laughing

Conversations of domestic beasts mocking

The Ringleader’s trope

I think I’ve played enough to recognize

You outside.

Theater flourishes. Without mine still

Akin to out and about

Without a stitch. Would you for my livery

To fall? Perhaps

The Ringleader does, for all beasts

And trope.

In realm under minstrelsy distractions

Purview,

Care of the Ringleader, who once wore

A helm like mine

Now controls beast and trope in full

Belonging to neither, both respecting

The mastery

In each’s talents, grown from a facade

For all the barbed cruelties faced,

“Baffoon”

Endured to mean knighted with honor

By titles of royalty, “Freak”

What do poisoned jeers matter

When wrapped in the armor of Kings?

Could I have been gifted yours in hope

I inherit “You” in a future game?

First, I must learn to grow that armor

Since circusing keeps Creatures crewed,

When Ringleader’s protection cannot

Shield everyone always

Don the facade of the day with bravery,

For today’s game is Circus

And it requires armor