Last updated: 06/02/2026
Disclaimers and Warnings
This entry contains depictions of violence and generally intense subject matters.
Overview
Here's a collection of recent poetry I've written; some entries were for class, while others were personal pieces. Style and formatting will vary wildly!
Tanka
My throat is burning
With the ache of tears unwept
That I feel pooling
In the corners of my eyes
From my stung, indignant heart.
Sonnet - Pride Month
June is the month where every queer stands proud;
Hand in hand, every voice is united,
“We are here, we are queer, and we are loud,”
Asserts our populace, undivided.
June is the time for our joy to proclaim,
For our grim history to be unearthed,
To confess our love without any shame,
And for our existence to be endorsed.
Colors paint the sidewalks, billboards and streets,
Our emblem of pride, a sight so freeing.
A rainbow to commemorate our feats,
Fighting for our rights as human beings.
Blessed are we all, queer and those allied,
For June is our time to celebrate pride.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Woods
I
What dwells between the trees?
When the
trees
fall
down,
I wonder,
Who is there to hear it?
II
The trees give me everything I need.
Shade from the sun,
Shelter from the rain,
A place to hide,
A place to play.
A constant generosity that feels almost maternal.
Thank you, trees.
III
A forest is like a stomach.
It will digest you,
Lest you roam too deep,
Lest you lose yourself to the creatures,
Or the elements.
There are rarely bodies to recover
Of those
who lost themselves to the woods.
IV
Trees
So wide,
And so tall.
Powerful pillars of life,
Built on time and soil
so ancient
It has existed through countless lifetimes;
It’s only appropriate,
To respect such elderly presence.
V
Over the past 10 years,
An estimated 150 billion trees have been lost to greed.
“Deforestation,”
The intentional slaughter of the forests that sustain us.
Sustain the world.
The slaughter must end;
Not just for their sake,
But for ours as well.
VI
Come along,
Let’s clear the trees
And sell the wood.
Just be careful
Which way
the tree
falls!
VII
I like to play in the woods.
The branches are my monkey bars,
The vines are my swings,
The hills are my slides,
And fallen trees are my balance beams.
There is something much more sincere,
About playing in nature,
Like we were always supposed to.
VIII
There is good cover around this undergrowth.
I saw hoofprints in the mud a couple yards back,
Leading over the stones
And up the hill.
There is a stream nearby,
Babbling with the promise
Of a fresh drink
To any creatures that pass it by.
Here is a good place to set my traps
And settle myself down
And play the waiting game
To cull that buck deer.
IX
The forest is a battleground,
Filled with animals striving to survive.
Their instincts sing,
Hungry Food Fight Fur Smell Grab Eat Cold Bite Run Scurry Hide Danger Feathers Hunt Claws Hurts Wet Warm Beaks Acids Pressures Swallow Dirt Shelter Water Waste Rot Rip Find Terror Impulse Listen Taste Tear Dig Scream Teeth Look
It is all they know,
Here in the deep dark woods.
X
Once a year,
Countless leaves,
Painted red, orange and gold,
By the brush of the crisp autumn air.
One by one,
They dive from their perches atop boughs and branches,
Twirling,
Waltzing,
Drifting gently
To the ground below.
And it is always beautiful.
XI
Forests are full of all sorts of folklore;
Fairies and dryads,
Tricksters and cryptids,
Witches and guardians,
And so much more.
What a wonderful place,
Full of stories;
A library of unwritten pages.
XII
A palace of filth and creepy-crawlies
Insects and parasites skittering below rot and leaflitter,
Through fur and feathers and guts and skin,
A thousand little legs have sullied every surface.
Mud born from the runoff of towering trees,
Occasionally drenched with slimy rainwater.
This place has never once known cleanliness.
How unpleasant.
XIII
How exhilarating!
A new set of vistas;
Fresh and untouched.
New hills,
New trees,
New soil and stones,
All for me to explore!
Animal Brain
I am alive.
That means, by nature, I am afraid.
It is in human nature to be afraid. Something, somewhere, makes me afraid.
I am afraid because something, somewhere, can hurt me.
I am afraid because I am alive.
Because I am an animal.
In the dead of night, enshrouded and engulfed by the dark, my animal brain wakes up.
My animal brain starts to speak.
It tells me, “Here, here with you, is the thing that makes you afraid. The thing that will hurt you.”
I know this is something everyone hears, because everyone is a human.
Everyone fears something, because everyone is an animal.
Everyone fears something, because they are alive.
I know this because everyone is alive.
But when my animal brain tells me this, I do not listen.
This is because I know I should not be afraid.
There is no reason to hurt me, so I will not get hurt.
And there is nothing to be afraid of.
This is not true for everyone.
I know this because there are terrible people who live in this world.
To be terrible is to hurt for the sake of hurting.
To be terrible is to ignore the pain caused by your hand.
A terrible person gives something, somewhere, a reason to hurt them.
And that reason is because they are terrible.
And because they are terrible, they have a reason to be afraid.
And there is everything to be afraid of.
I hope those fears come true.
I hope the terrible realize they have everything to fear.
I hope that something, somewhere, will hurt them for the sake of hurting.
I hope that when they stare into the night, alarmed by their animal brain, they will see the pain caused by their hand. The pain they ignored.
Unmasked. Livid. Resentful and bitter.
Finally granted the ability to be heard and seen. Seizing the opportunity for justice with every last drop of boiling, seething ferocity that had been denied and suppressed for so long.
Unable to be ignored.
I hope their animal brain is right, that here, right here, is something that will hurt them.
And I hope it scares them.
And I hope it surges forward to lock its jaws.
To gnaw into their soul and bleed them dry.
To deliver what is deserved.
And I hope it is painful.
Acrostic Poetry - Thadrofinica
The world of diversity, vast and varied,
Home to both the happy and hapless.
Across land, sea and sky,
Denizens of every shape, size and scheme
Roam in skips, trips, saunters, flutters and slithers.
Oddities thrive, although it may seem outlandish,
Friends, foes and foreigners will all flourish,
In this beautifully bizarre world called “Thadrofinica.”
Now, be prepared for the exotic and unsightly;
I hope you won’t find it frightening,
Cause sometimes, the difference is quite enlightening!
Ah! Truly, what a world to behold.
Limerick - Wild Goose Chase
Oh me, oh my, my dog has run loose,
And there she goes to charge a wild goose!
I’ll always remember,
How turned against her,
And sent her home with a nasty bruise.
Rondeau - To Be Okay
I wonder what it’s like to be okay?
I hope that maybe I’ll find out some day.
Preferably someday before I die,
I could relax without wanting to cry,
And I’d be happy that I found my way.
When I’m no longer wandering astray,
When my heartache finally lifts away,
Will I feel empty when my tears run dry?
I wonder what it’s like.
Maybe some day I’ll be able to say:
“It’s alright, I made it, hip hip hooray,
It’s over now, I don’t have to retry.
Never again will I feel so awry,
Living my life without that disarray.”
I wonder what it’s like.
To Live, To See, To Feel and To Imagine
A piece of one’s mind, frozen forever. Captured by hand, a worthwhile endeavor. Some have bright colors, or none whatsoever. The greatest of these, you'll always remember.
What am I?
Art.
I am art.
Since the beginning of human history, I have always been here.
You lived, you saw, you felt, and you imagined.
And in return, you clawed up handfuls of dirt, doused your hands in earthy pigments, found somewhere flat and firm, and you brought me to life.
And you never did stop, you know.
I have lived through many eras; prehistoric, renaissance, baroque, romanticism, impressionism, abstract expressionism, contemporary art and everything in between.
I have touched millions of eyes and millions of hearts.
I have been forged by millions of minds and millions of hands.
I am made of a million different mediums and I am made in a million different ways.
And I have made a million differences in a million lifetimes.
I am not art.
Though, I am sure I don’t need a riddle to tell you that I am an artist.
That is no secret.
I have not lived through eras.
I am not forged by millions of minds and millions of hands.
I am not made of a million different mediums and I am not made in a million different ways.
I have not made a million differences in a million lifetimes.
Not yet, at least.
But I live, I see, I feel, and I imagine.
In return, I pick up my pencil and eraser, find something flat and smooth, and I bring art to life.
And maybe, just maybe, I could touch millions of eyes and millions of hearts.
Well, maybe not millions.
But you never really know.
As an artist, I bring art to life.
I bring her to life and I send her out into the world.
And sometimes I hear her echo back,
Bouncing off the minds of others like a reverberating canyon.
I listen.
I hear the echoes vary.
“You made that? That’s amazing!”
“How did you do that?”
“Can you draw me?”
“How long did that take you?”
“I can’t even draw a stick figure!”
But almost every time, I hear the same echo.
It says,
“I could never make that.”
And almost every time, I want to echo back;
You’re right.
You could never make that.
Now, I don’t say this with scorn in my heart or a demeaning tongue.
That is to say,
When the echo says “I could never make that,”
It really means, “I am not good enough to make that.”
Although it may want, wish and wonder what it might be like,
It thinks it won’t.
And that is to say,
When I echo back, “You’re right, you could never make that,”
I really mean, “you could never make that.”
The best artists in the world could never make that.
And that is because you are not the artist that made the piece.
You are not me.
All art is exclusive to her creator;
She is a piece of them, captured by hand.
So of course you could never make that,
Because you are not part of my puzzle.
That’s the best part about art;
Every artist is their own,
Reaping only what they themself have sown.
And every harvest is distinguishable, distinct and discernible,
Like a fingerprint that cannot be doubled, duplicated or ditto.
We live, we see, we feel and we imagine.
But we do not live the same, see the same, feel the same or imagine the same.
Your art will look different from mine,
Because I don't have your eyes or your hands or your mind;
And vice versa.
So of course,
Since we are not the same,
Of course you could never make what I’ve created.
Of course you could never make that.
Instead, you can make something new.
Anyone can bring art to life.
You can breathe life into her better than you ever knew,
And I think she will be beautiful.
I want to show you something.
This is an art piece that trended in January of 2025.
It looks simple. Almost crude.
A collection of simple shapes and unapologetically vivid colors.
To an untrained eye, it could seem like ‘bad art.’
But if it is ‘bad,’ why did it trend?
Why has it touched millions of eyes and millions of hearts?
That is because it is genuine.
The artist lived, saw, felt and imagined,
And this is what was made in return.
And for that reason, it is good art.
A complex piece holds more less soul than a simple one,
It is only art that is made without love that deserves respect by none.
If something considered ‘crude’ can be good art,
Then I think you can make something ‘good’ too.
And that’s exactly what I will invite you to do right now.
Draw this piece.
I want you to live, to see, to feel, and to imagine. And in return, I want you to pick up your pencil, find the flat smooth surface I gave you, and I want you to bring art to life.
I want you to meet her for yourself, just this once.
Tell me, what is she like?
Do you like her?
Do you hate her?
Would you like to meet her again?
Do you think there is a world where you will?
Do we live in a world where you won’t?
When this piece was trending in 2025,
Plenty of artists did what I just had you do.
They drew this piece.
Tell me, do any two entries of this gallery look the same?
Even though they use the same colors?
Even though they use the same figures?
Even though they emerged from the same origin?
I wouldn’t say so.
I doubt you’d say so, too.
Look into your own piece.
Look at the gallery.
Look at your neighbor’s piece.
Can you see your own creative fingerprint?
Anyone can bring art to life.
I think she is part of what makes us human.
As a human, you live, you see, you feel and you imagine.
What will you do in return?