Poems

Crazy Things
Mindscape travel light and fast.
In my dreams it brings out the crazies
I may imagine, but i still saw it last
...

(The speaker stands alone, clutching an object that reminds them of someone lost—a letter, a photograph, a ring. Their voice is trembling at first, then rises with anger, longing, and sorrow.)
Monologue:
I loved… I loved with everything I had.
Every heartbeat, every breath, every quiet moment…
...

(The speaker stands alone, voice trembling at first, eyes fixed on an imaginary figure or distant memory. Their hands clutch their chest, as if trying to hold onto a heart that has slipped away.)
Monologue:
I loved you.
God, I loved you.
...

(The speaker sits alone, voice heavy, occasionally breaking, hands trembling as if trying to hold onto what is already gone. Their eyes dart to the floor, then to an imaginary figure.)
Monologue:
I should have said it.
I should have done it.
...

Have you ever griped a cloud in your hand, held water in a bowel of sand, restrained a shadow that flees
Tied down a moving star, made near out of far, secured a breeze between your knees
Tied a knot in thin air, woven cloth of happiness from threads of despair, painted hatred with love's brush
Washed night with sunlit rays, with your lips planted seeds of days and with a mobius band held back time's rush
...

(The speaker stands alone, holding an object of remembrance—a photograph, a letter, or simply empty air. Their voice is quiet at first, weighted with grief.)
Monologue:
I still reach for you.
Without thinking. Without meaning to.
...

(The speaker stands alone, eyes fixed on an imagined presence. Their voice is controlled at first, almost reverent, then slowly fractures.)
Monologue:
I never wanted to possess you.
That's what I tell myself.
...

(The speaker stands facing an unseen parent or elder, voice restrained at first, hands clenched, emotion simmering beneath control.)
Monologue:
You say you don't recognize me.
That I've changed. That I've forgotten where I come from.
...

(The speaker stands alone in stillness, as if the world has paused around them. Their voice is calm at first, reflective, then grows heavier with urgency.)
Monologue:
I wake every morning with the same question—
not loud, not urgent, just… waiting.
...

(The speaker stands alone, still, as if listening to something beyond the room. Their voice is steady at first, contemplative, then slowly fractures with urgency.)
Monologue:
I have searched everywhere for meaning.
In beginnings. In endings.
...

(The speaker stands as if at a crossroads, eyes fixed ahead. Their voice begins measured, thoughtful, then grows charged with defiance.)
Monologue:
They tell me this was written.
That my steps were measured before I ever learned to walk.
...

(The speaker stands slightly apart, as if the world continues without noticing them. Their voice is quiet, deliberate, carrying the weight of long-held thoughts.)
Monologue:
It isn't the silence that frightens me.
It's the noise.
...