Courage to Be Kind
On legacy, kindness, and a mother's wisdom — that what people remember isn't what you said or did, but how you made them feel.
The journal
Every poem, in order
146 pieces. Most recent first. New work appears at the top.
Namaste
On change, looking inward, and the quiet honor in greeting yourself the way you would a friend.
We Carry a Torch
Written on a bridge in Florence, watching the Arno pass below — a meditation on what we carry forward and what we leave behind.
Are You Listening?
A haiku on the quiet wisdom of the body — and the cost of ignoring it.
Frozen in Time
On old photographs, forgotten lives, and the strange tenderness of remembering people you've outgrown.
I Knew It Was You
A haiku on recognition — the moment you meet someone and feel certain you've already known them somewhere before.
Swimming in Someone Else's Seas
On the cost of people-pleasing — and the slow work of learning to swim in the seas that are actually yours.
I Wish I Could See
On the human ache to know — what's coming, what it all means, and whether knowing would change anything at all.
Still Scared to Crumble
Three lines for the 3am questions — and the small honesty of admitting we're still scared anyway.
Look Into My Eyes
On contradictions, self-doubt, and the long practice of becoming someone you'd be proud to be.
Nightmares Are Dreams
On the hard feelings — and the small, weirdly hopeful reminder that nightmares end the same way dreams do.
We're Not So Different
On the small, brave act of being honest with a stranger — and the recognition that comes back.
A Presence in the Present
On the fleeting bliss of full presence — when the past and future fall away, and there's only now.
I Believe in Fate
On the paradox of free will and destiny — and the quiet hope that, if it's all written, the writing is kind.
I Had a Good Day
On the parallel weather of a planet — joy and grief unfolding at the same time, and the small grace of remembering.
Walking by the Sea
On the particular peace of being alone with the ocean — and how solitude, on the right day, can feel like company.
Two Years In
On two years of daily meditation — what it changed, what it didn't, and the quiet practice of accepting what comes.
Spreading Peace
Six bars on poetry, peace, and breathing through the noise.
Spiritual Downpour
On a hard rain, a regret-cleansing, and the strange grace of joining the sky in crying.
Simple Things
On the regret that arrives only after the simple things are gone — and the chance, if we get it, to do them differently.
Rhymes and Beats
Short and sharp — the kind of bar that doesn't ask for breath. Four lines, one shot.
Until I Met You
Three lines. The whole shape of meeting someone who rewrites what you thought you knew.
Symbolic Bars
Six lines of self-deprecating rap — owning the bit, swinging anyway.
The Pull of the Universe
On waves, destiny, and the quiet strength of being pulled toward what's meant for you.
If the World Was Ending
Four lines that ask one question — and whoever you picture is the answer.
Your Own Beat
On the modern weight of being constantly watched — and the courage it still takes to march to your own beat.
To My Dear Friend
A letter in verse to someone who isn't here anymore — and a promise about what gets carried forward.
Nothing Permanent
Three lines for the freedom that arrives only after you've stopped trying to hold things still.
I Met a Man
On hidden talent, the beauty most people miss, and how easily the most important things in our lives go unrecognized.
Feelings Need Nourishment
Four lines on the forest inside us — and the quiet rhythm of acting and pausing.
Running Is My Self-Reflection
On running as practice — the one we don't always cherish, and the only one we won't always have.
Dust Off the Boots
On returning to the path you already know is good for you — even after the rabbit hole.
Once I'm in the Zone
A bar about flow — when the writing stops needing oxygen and starts breathing for you.
They Don't Even Know
On the secondhand weight of someone else's pain — and how care quietly carries it.
Off My Chest
Six lines on why some thoughts only fit through verse — and what to do when normal sentences won't hold them.
Every Day Is a New Beginning
On the New Year that arrives every morning — and the quiet truth that the journey is already underway.
Take a Breath
Small acts of care, written down as instructions — because how fast life moves is rarely how fast we notice.
I Keep Failing
On the quiet fear inside trying again — that one day the trying might run out.
Bond Impossible to Break
On the soulmate as fresh air — and the kind of love that arrives feeling like physics.
Where Time Stands Still
A small ask of the world — to sweep us off our feet again, to a place where love can begin.
Even If You Forget My Name
On legacy — and the difference between being remembered and being felt.
Algorithmic Identity
On being shaped by the feed — and the slow erosion of decency it's costing all of us.
Many Soulmates
A four-line reframe on the word *soulmate* — and the quiet permission inside it.
Romantic at Heart
On the wanderer's curse — going so far in your dreams that you miss the oasis right in front of you.
Consistently Inconsistent
On the loops we keep running — and the small commitment to keep coming back to the work.
Anticipations Heavy
On the strange thing that happens to writers when they're at peace — and the loss of control that comes when the words finally arrive.
Silence Is the Killer
On the corporate gloss sold as substance — and the quiet that lets it pass.
If You Had My Eyes
On the ugly the mirror shows you — and the small, stubborn fact that the mirror is wrong.
The Sound of Rain
On the strange way time stretches and compresses — and the storms that briefly make you forget there was anything else.
We Only Get One Shot
On the boy who fell in the woods and the man who can't quite see the sky the same way anymore.
Each Season
On the slow loops of growth — and the breath that lets the next one begin.
That Anger, That Pain
On the refrain underneath the noise — how much of what we call anger is really just a child asking where they went.
Nothing Really Matters
On the strange paradox of meaninglessness — and the deep capacity we have to make meaning anyway.
I'll See You Later
Three lines for the friendships that never quite closed and never quite stayed.
Writing Helps Calm Me
Three lines about the medicine you can't get anywhere else.
Trends and Themes
On the patterns underneath the days — and the small practice of trying to embrace them carefully.
Love in Spring
Four lines for the kind of love that arrives like a season.
Under Water
Four lines on the particular peace of being submerged — and the small relief of returning.
Warm Tea and Yoga
Three lines for the small rituals that quietly do the heavy lifting.
The Sight of Trees
On the particular peace that arrives in a forest — and the wish to one day share it with someone.
She Moved Me
On the people we'll never see again — and the way they keep teaching us how to be.
Beauty Abound
Three lines for the days when the news won't quit — and the small, stubborn fact that the beauty is still there.
Oh Oliver
A small love letter to the dog who keeps walking into the room and rearranging the day.
Good Days
Three lines for the days that don't ask anything of you — they just flow.
Presently Dreaming
Three lines that fold the future into the present — and find them already touching.
Are We Really Listening
A companion piece to *That Anger, That Pain* — about the small lies we trade and the harder act of actually hearing each other.
Meu Amor
A coffee-shop morning, a map on the wall, and a quiet decision that the where doesn't matter as much as the who.
Age of Information
On the irony of knowing everything and understanding less — and the part each of us plays.
Running Helps Me Breathe
On the strange medicine of putting one foot in front of the other — and how the body teaches things the mind keeps forgetting.
A Writer Who Doesn't Write
On the gift you keep promising to give yourself time for — and the slow ache of never quite getting there.
I Hope I Can Be Proud
On the quiet wish to like the person you become — and to have made some good in someone else along the way.
What Depths We Have
Three lines, written in Florence — on the strange privilege of being moved by people who don't exist.
Is Art Not a Part of Us
On the songs and stories woven into us — and the small, sacred work of meditating on what moves you.
Always Beginning Anew
On the and-also of being human — that two true things can sit in the same chest at once.
Embrace the Storm
On loneliness, the universal weather underneath it, and the quiet permission to feel it all.
Time Is a Vessel
On time as both gift and thief — and the small, repeated hope underneath.
Some Days
A list poem about the texture of a normal life — and the small surprise of opening your eyes.
Take Your Time, Kid
On the conversation between the calm self and the anxious one — and the small mercy of letting the past stay there.
Two Souls
On the love that arrives feeling like discovery — and the promise to be the one who shows up.
It's Friday
A small scene in the rain — and the strange weight of meeting a stranger's eyes for one second.
Not a War I Intend to Lose
On the persistent thoughts that won't leave — and the slow, stubborn work of refusing to let them win.
In Your Corner
A letter in verse to the people I love — even the ones I haven't talked to in awhile.
Until I Can't
Three lines of plain commitment — and a quiet acknowledgment that for some, the option isn't there.
Silence Is My Solitude
On the quiet that gets mistaken for sadness — and the small peace of being misread on purpose.
Eu Ainda Choro
A bilingual haiku — three lines about the heart that holds love and tears in the same hand.
Did We Have the Choice
On the rabbit hole of cause and effect — and the unsettling question of whether we ever really chose any of it.
Drenched in Sweat
On the dream that wakes you up at 3am — and the small choice of what to do with it.
Addicted to Validation
On needing to hear it from someone else — and the long road of learning to believe it from inside.
Olhando no Mar
A bilingual haiku — a love seen first in Portuguese, then in English.
I Don't Belong Anywhere
Four lines on the strange ache of feeling close to many people and home in none of them.
I Have Just Begun
Three lines of beginner's mind — humility as a daily practice.
Delicate Soul
On feeling everything at full volume — and the small ask to be handled accordingly.
Imagine Yourself a Pilot
An extended metaphor on the storms that arrive mid-flight — and the only direction available.
Poor Girl I Thought
A small scene observed from a distance — and the quiet hope of being wrong about it.
Live Presently
Three lines for the moment that's still happening — before it becomes the memory you wish you'd been more in.
It Doesn't Take Much
On what kids still know that we forgot — and the small price of remembering.
A Sliver of Light
On the storms that don't end on schedule — and the small beam that shows up anyway.
Connect with My Dad
On finding the keys, finding the song, and finding — late but not too late — a way back to the person who taught you both.
You Get What You Need
Three lines of dad wisdom — the kind that takes years to land.
Slaves to Unchanging Identities
On the chains we build out of who we used to be — and the storm that might be the only way to wash them off.
A Spiral
On the version of love that doubles as a wound — and the cycle it traps you in.
Where We Need to Go
On wanting someone you love to grow with you — and the hard math when the paces don't match.
Know the Difference
On the hard-earned skill of telling real love from the things that wear its name.
What It Means to Be Human
On the small, unselfish gestures — and the quiet realization of what they're actually for.
Loving So Deeply
Three lines for the kind of love that arrives feeling like a return.
Hello Old Friend
On the parts of yourself you'd thought were gone — and the small joy of finding them still in there.
Divided Yet Interconnected
On the strange paradox of being more reachable and more isolated than ever — and the slow hope of healing.
I'm Glad You Did What You Had To
On the chapters of a life — and the only thing you can really say to the past version of yourself.
Awakening from Suffering
On the slow climb out — and the small mercy of the lessons that arrive along the way.
Maybe, Somehow
On the half-finished things — and the small, stubborn root that says *maybe still.*
I Like Your Weird
On the particular kind of love that's specifically pointed at the parts of someone nobody else has bothered to notice.
If I Loved Myself Sooner
Four lines for the alternate timeline — and the small permission to wonder, without staying there.
Why Now, Why Me
On finally meeting someone who actually means it — and the strange suspicion that follows.
It's My Mental
Six lines about the gap between how much we're hurting and how much anyone can see of it.
Begin Anew
Four lines that are also four mornings — the small inventory of an okay day starting.
Respect, Connect
Five lines about the simplest version of what we're all trying to find.
I've Got Myself to Lean On
On the gratitude that arrives only after you've come through enough to see what made you.
Truly Being Free
On the candle and the hourglass — and the long question of whether the time was used the way it deserved.
Be Kind to Yourself
Three lines for the days when the ego is doing too much talking.
Faith Is Hard to Keep
Three lines for the days when belief asks more of you than the day has.
Cynically Optimistic
On forgiving without forgetting — and listening to the small voice underneath.
Footsteps of Jesus
Four lines about the gap between what people call themselves and what they actually do.
We've Become One
On the sand, the stars, and the small dissolution of the self that the right beach can deliver.
Stand Tall
On the high seas and the calm ones — and the small, durable lesson that holds across both.
The Dam Is Breaking
On the long sleep of being your own worst enemy — and the slow, patient breaking that comes after.
A Love Sublime
Four lines — the smallest possible draft of a wedding vow.
Warms My Soul
On the writing that arrives without warning — and the only honest reason to keep doing it.
Forms Like a Nuke Bomb
Five bars built on cadence — and a few proper nouns the right people will recognize.
Take Care of Yourself
On the strange survival posture of always defending — and the small invitation to let go of it.
Past This Life
Three lines for the love that doesn't expire when the rest of it does.
Love Supreme
On the long shadow of being told you weren't enough — and the small dream of believing in love anyway.
Sometimes I Like Him
Seven lines on the moving target that is the self in the mirror.
When to Change Your Route
On the comfortable rut that's slowly becoming a tomb — and the awareness that lets you climb out.
Cosmic Connection
On the love that arrives without an explanation — and the small wisdom of not asking too many questions.
Without You by My Side
Four short stanzas for the love that turns the impossible possible — and the absence that turns everything to nothing.
I Think That's What Love Is
On the small re-orientation when someone else's emotional weather becomes part of yours.
Perfectly Imperfect
On the if-onlys we live with — and the quiet permission to be exactly the messy version we are.
Glimpse of Peace
On the dream that ends just as you understood it — and the strange residue it leaves.
Distant Lands
Three lines for the kind of peace that only the unfamiliar can offer.
Do We Ever Choose
Three lines for the unanswerable — and the small permission to leave the question open.
Speak Freely
On the conversation you wish you'd had — and the small lesson we keep failing to learn from it.
All of Us Need Love
On the variety of how we hold pain — and the one thing we all hold in common.
Two Complete Strangers
On the small encounters that have no follow-up — and the strange, brief proof that the world is connected anyway.
Deal with Fate
On the questions that visit at 3am — about choice, consequence, and whether the wrong choice is still ours.
Seldom Speaking
On the loud, isolated, contradictory present — and the small refusal of it.
The Meaning of Life
Three lines for the question philosophers have spent millennia not quite answering.