A close-up view of a portion of a checklist with handwritten items in black ink and a red pen, including words like "Homestuck" and "MLP" with some check marks and handwritten notes.

Writing

I write poetry and short prose for adult readers.

This work pays attention to what lingers. Ordinary days. Private reckonings. The quiet weight of memory, faith, doubt, and endurance. I’m less interested in resolution than in accuracy, and in saying the thing that remains once the language has been stripped down to what’s necessary.

Many of these pieces begin as small observations and stay that way. They aren’t built to instruct or reassure. They sit with uncertainty, allow discomfort, and trust the reader to decide what to carry forward.

I don't aim for comfort or conclusion. It’s interested in attention, restraint, and the slow work of noticing what doesn’t announce itself.

Some of this work has been shared publicly in fragments and finished pieces. A larger collection is currently in progress.

  • At the end of “Lovers.” Hanging on tattered edges of promises unkept. Fingertips brush heartstrings. Each thread loosens, and we become torn. At the end of it all. In the ties that we’ve cut, and those seams that we’ve ripped. Among these memor

    Seemless

  • You are my point of reference In a blending of palettes. Upon a canvas, Where I paint pictures of me, And you, And we, Take these brushes and these colors And spill an afternoon Onto a blank sheet. “This is beautiful,” you said “A work of art,”

    Point of Reference

  • I’m not a religious man, But I am a believer. In people and hope, And faith in a higher purpose. When prayers are needed, I imagine, They are heard by whatever gods and monsters that haunt my room at night. When I whisper into the dark

    Listen...

  • On the early end of a December, Just before the cold burns the world into a grey white silence. And another year lies untouched in an unopened calendar. Until a million little lights cease to twinkle against the trim of the holidays. I implore,

    Another

  • the days are shorter and the nights long for something better the moon rises and the sun sets and the Dark at this point has only convinced me that the Day isn’t even really f*cking trying.

    (USA, n.d.)

  • There’s that sinking feeling, Of a 3 AM phone call, At the deep end of a Friday night, Left to drown in a shallow Saturday morning, It was all just a little too much, A little too late. To save either of us.

    RoomtoBreath

  • Sometimes you have to let things burn. Let them burn all the way down. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Back to the dirt and the wind. On new soil, you can build anything. Or let it be, to grow wild and free. Kingdoms of Earth have been raised

    Air and Dirt (room to grow)

  • A toast to the New Year. For the fools, find principle, For the sinners, find peace. For the broken, find healing. For the lovers, find each other. For the happy, don't stop. And for the rest of us, find them.

    For 202X

  • I was looking for something to say, But my puzzle of a heart couldn’t find a surface in the words, So I spilled it all out on the floor and ran my hands through the pieces. Too many. Too much. Just a pile of confusion, scattered and disjointed. Ove

    S c a t t e r e d.