I’ve never quite understood keys. Or how something so small can decide if you’re allowed back in. In "Keys", part of the "Things I Don’t Understand" series, I try to unlock a door. The door has thoughts. The key has memory. And apparently, I have something to answer for.

There are signs that point left. Signs that point right. And then there are signs that point "Up"... Without explanation, context, or the courtesy of being metaphorical.

"There’s a bench with the arm broken off. The paint flakes like pages left in the sun. A pigeon nests underneath it like permanence could be proximity. And someone stands nearby: still fading, still here. Almost sitting. Almost gone"

He has everything. Still, he wants. A poetic autopsy of power and the man it unravels.

Twelve chickens. One plate. And the haunting begins. A surprisingly spiritual dive into a late-night chicken binge.

“My labor tree has yet to flower, but grows taller, likes to mock me.” A poem about patient hope and tending without proof.

What secrets lie beneath the reef’s shimmering surface? Dive into a poetic exploration of underwater politics, hidden alliances, and silent dramas .

"If the world bruises you blue, I’ll still be here. Tea warm. Light low. Quiet enough to hear you."

I sip the hour. I taste the air. Not every day glows, but most days hum. This is a piece about those days.

I don’t reach for the past, but it finds me. Like an unsent note in a jacket pocket, still folded. Still warm.

Between obscurity and brilliance lies a quiet tension: a standoff between doubt and reverence. This piece explores the messy, human grind behind genius, one voice note about pigeons at a time.

A quiet ritual. Some winter ducks. I didn’t mean to get emotionally attached. But I did. And then they were gone.

A restless loop of almosts and stills: the raw pulse of becoming

A post about redefining success. Trading the pursuit of approval for quiet fulfillment, presence over performance, and being enough.