As I walk through this mystical forest, to a destination unknown, all I see is beauty. Beauty not seen by others, but seen by only those who have a desire to understand. Nature is a constant source of regeneration and change, just as beauty to a human. We accept the changes that are so easily recognizable, until it comes to ourselves.

Just like nature’s regeneration we must regenerate ourselves. Growth, passion, excitement, joy, pain, sadness, all emotions encompassing us in order to be complete. Just like the spring sun, we must come out of the darkness, whole. Even though the pain can be consuming, the sadness illuminating, and the grief depressing, only in this can you ever appreciate the spring sun, when the light comes, and the joy begins.

Nature changes with the seasons. How can we protect ourselves from the changing of the seasons? To align and grow, to hide and be in sorrow, to love and unite, the choices are ours. Letting go of the seasons, letting go of our preconceived notions, letting go of control, letting go of limitations, letting go of desire, letting go of others, in order to project into destiny.

in life I’ve always felt kinda off,
never completely,
always just kinda

the kinda off that you notice when you catch a glimpse of your smile in the mirror,
teeth crooked enough to be noticeable but never crooked enough to be fixed.
that kinda off

the kinda off that you only see when you take a few steps back and really take in the slightly uneven shelf you put up in your new apartment.
tilted enough to stand out but not tilted enough to be remounted.
that kinda off

the kinda off that you hear every time you play music through the speakers you blew out two years ago,
the sound quality is bad enough to complain, but never bad enough to be replaced.
that kinda off

the kinda off you feel when your grandma buys you a shirt that you’d never wear.
you feel guilty enough to keep it but never guilty enough to wear it
that kinda off

but crooked smiles laugh the loveliest laughs,
tilted shelves hold the most precious memories,
terrible speakers play the best songs,
and shitty shirts are make the best pajamas,
so that’s why I’m happy to say:

“In life I’ve always felt kinda off,
not completely,
always kinda,”

I forget sometimes that I play dead
while I’m alive in my head,
so I turn into a puppet,
performing for strangers I’ll never see again,
clapping along with the rhythm of a conversation
I don’t know how to join.

Simon Says: “Go back to your cage,”
and I obey,
letting the circus of my mind keep me entertained.

Self-destruction never felt so familiar,
but it’s a routine I know well,
so I hide there—
a place to forget the awkwardness of breathing
when the world is watching,
when I can’t be anyone but the ghost of myself.

See, I see dragons in the clouds,
pirates on the street,
and treasure buried in the spaces between words.
I’m Alice, falling,
finding safety in the rabbit hole
because it’s quieter there.

Forgive me if I hide in these thoughts
and call it peace,
but it’s not you,
it’s me—
a thousand thoughts running wild,
all seducing me,
a mental circus that can never sit still.

I wish my mind were kinder,
less demanding,
less sharp with its edges.

I wish it didn’t take everything so personally,
but rest is a luxury
I can never afford.

So, forgive me when my eyes glaze over,
and my thoughts wander—
concentration escapes me
like a dream that can never last.

Me, myself, and I are strangers
in a house we built,
but none of us are brave enough
to ask for help,
because the patience it takes to untangle these thoughts
feels like something I’ll never find.

I wish my answers came easier,
but when you ask,
what’s on my mind?
I choke on the words,
the answers taste like nothing at all—
“I’m fine,”
and I say it like a script,
memorized, rehearsed,
until I believe it.

The show must go on,
but it’s a performance I can’t keep up,
so I wear the mask of a clown
and hope no one notices
how much I’m pretending.

I’m buried beneath my thoughts,
and this little light of mine
is flickering,
waiting for someone to notice
that I’m lost in the dark.

So, let’s talk about distractions,
about the peace I fake,
the mask I wear,
and maybe then you’ll understand
why I disappear when I should be present.

Please, don’t judge the silence,
because it’s just me,
thinking out loud,
trying to find my way back.

I often feel inadequate —
Like I am constantly yearning but never becoming.
I often wonder if I will ever be enough,
If anything I ever do will ever be enough.

I try so desperately to pretend that I am,
For I find it unbearably humiliating that I am not.
And like lasers carving their path through my skin,
I feel their expectant eyes —
Eyes that burn with silent judgment.

I read the words within their gaze —
A book authored by my own anxiety.
And I find that I must pretend,
Or else the words become snakes beneath my skin —
Silently devouring me from the inside out.

So I pretend. I pretend. I pretend.
And my pretense is mistaken for a beauty it is not —
The beauty of strength,
Of resilience,
Of ambition.

But the critical truth —
The one I guard with my life —
Is far uglier than they could ever imagine.

The truth is: I revel in the misunderstanding.
The truth is: I have no desire to be.
For I cannot define what be means for me.

My wife and I have been apart of The GoodNews clowns for 12 years and we are Christian clowns, yet WE DON’T PUSH our Living God on anybody and we won’t wear face paint.We give out over 20 different balloon animals to kids and ANYONE who wants one. And when we do a event we won’t be late and we will GLADLY STAY until everyone who wants a balloon animal gets one It still seems as though the world we live in the word Clown isn’t mentioned and considered HORRIBLE, growing up there was Ronald McDonald and Bozo the Clown and kids were laughing their heads off.The new generation of clowns are Evil and the Media WON’T PUSH A LAUGHING CLOWN, if they do ANYTHING BAD, they jump All over it,( the clown scare years ago) if they do good, they turn a blind eye and see Nothing.We are BLESSED and THANKFUL for the Amazing events we have and THEY ARE AMAZING, yet we have had some events that WE WERE STUNNED by, One event we were out behind the music sound system and TOLD there was NO OTHER SPOT, to take it or leave it, or one event we were put in a back room away from everyone else and told there’s no other spot for you.Our Many crazy balloons Will ALWAYS BE FREE, and we will pray with you if you ask us to or talk about God, BUT WE WON’T PUSH IT .We live in a Stereotype world, where you hear how a person is and they are judged before you know them.Never judge a book by its cover.Ph413 I can do all things through Christ which strengthen me.

To the world,

You see a man—strong, unshaken, a fortress of resilience. A veteran, a father, a poet, a dreamer. You see the ink I spill, the laughter I share, the mask I wear in the daylight. You see the pieces I choose to show.

But do you see me? Do you really see me?

You call me tough because I have endured. You say I am lucky because I survived. But survival is not the same as living, and endurance is not the same as being whole. I have carried battles within my soul long after the battlefield was left behind. I have fought wars with silence, with memories, with ghosts that refuse to rest. And yet, when I speak of the weight of these unseen scars, the world shifts uncomfortably, as if pain should only exist where the eye can see.

They tell me to move on, as if grief is a door I forgot to close. They say love will come when I stop looking, as if my heart is a wound I refuse to heal. They say men should be strong, as if strength is the absence of suffering, rather than the courage to face it.

I am misunderstood in the way I love too deeply yet hesitate to trust. In the way I long for connection yet fear the sting of betrayal. In the way I wear my past like armor, yet beneath it, my soul is bare. I have stood in the fire and emerged—scarred, yes, but standing. And still, they see only the steel, never the burn marks beneath.

They misunderstand the way I dream. That I can be a warrior and a poet. That I can seek adventure yet crave stability. That I can love without surrendering my identity. They misunderstand that I am not lost, even when my road is winding.

But hear me now, world—I am not just the stories of my past, nor the expectations you place upon me. I am more than the mistakes I have made, the battles I have fought, the pain I have carried. I am the sum of my scars and my healing, my losses and my triumphs. I am not just a man who endures—I am a man who feels, who loves, who dreams, who dares to speak his truth.

And even if you misunderstand me, I will not silence myself to make you comfortable.

With strength and truth,
Kristopher Haeberlin

Beautiful Mosaic

The words flow through my mind
Like the wind through the trees,
Dancing about like leaves on branches,
Flipping and flopping—oh, what a sight.
But this is dyslexia, if you must know.
I read and spell like a jumble, so slow.

My words come out twisted,
Like a tongue twister I can’t tame.
When I try to speak, my thoughts get flipped,
Making people giggle or snarl in shame,
Thinking I’m lazy, or worse—ignorant,
But that’s not it, not at all.

On top of that, my mind races,
A hundred miles a minute,
The creative side taking over,
My vision, a blur, as I try to finish.
Focusing on a task? What is that?
ADHD is what they say,
But I’m not hyper, not today.

At 32, I was diagnosed with this,
They called me lazy, but that wasn’t it.
I try so hard, but the simplest things
Feel like mountains, impossible to climb.
I am misunderstood,
They think I’m dumb,
But deep inside, I am smart,
If only they could see that part.

I’m trapped in a fight,
Yearning for someone to see me,
My heart tangled in a storm,
With all this comes anxiety and grief.
Triggers hit me hard,
But at least I stand,
I guess that’s something to be proud of.

Empty space fills my soul,
A part of me is missing—
My child and his soul,
Who am I behind this mask of pain?
Sometimes, I wonder about that myself.

I’m a puzzle missing pieces,
Maybe one day they’ll see me
Like a beautiful mosaic on the wall,
All of me, not just the broken parts.

The words flow through my mind
Like the wind through the trees,
Dancing about like leaves on branches,
Flipping and flopping—oh, what a sight.
But this is dyslexia, if you must know.
I read and spell like a jumble, so slow.

My words come out twisted,
Like a tongue twister I can’t tame.
When I try to speak, my thoughts get flipped,
Making people giggle or snarl in shame,
Thinking I’m lazy, or worse—ignorant,
But that’s not it, not at all.

On top of that, my mind races,
A hundred miles a minute,
The creative side taking over,
My vision, a blur, as I try to finish.
Focusing on a task? What is that?
ADHD is what they say,
But I’m not hyper, not today.

At 32, I was diagnosed with this,
They called me lazy, but that wasn’t it.
I try so hard, but the simplest things
Feel like mountains, impossible to climb.
I am misunderstood,
They think I’m dumb,
But deep inside, I am smart,
If only they could see that part.

I’m trapped in a fight,
Yearning for someone to see me,
My heart tangled in a storm,
With all this comes anxiety and grief.
Triggers hit me hard,
But at least I stand,
I guess that’s something to be proud of.

Empty space fills my soul,
A part of me is missing—
My child and his soul,
Who am I behind this mask of pain?
Sometimes, I wonder about that myself.

I’m a puzzle missing pieces,
Maybe one day they’ll see me
Like a beautiful mosaic on the wall,
All of me, not just the broken parts.

Heartbreak
Is everywhere like dropped dishes
She sits and sips her coffee
Appears calm and composed
Amid the shattered glass that today was, figuratively speaking
This time

She looks through her memory of today
And finds the pieces of porcelain that have pretty filagrees and bits of flowers
To laugh if she can
She looks aside from the pieces
To see what is not broken
Fixes her eyes on what is whole and real and doing well
She clutches those things in her hands
She has to be careful not to grasp them too tightly
In case even that
Were broken.

She waters plants
She sings songs
She breathes cold air
She plans a garden
She plans a project bigger than this day
She shops for dishes
She is defiantly hopeful

The church ladies said “what a devoted mother”
The neighbor said “your so busy all the time”
Truly
She’s running from one moment to the next preventing disasters & providing cues.
She:
Hugs this child and hopes it is somehow healing to them both
He:
Stares out a window quietly
No words
He is a mystery
Hope is present like a cat that doesn’t like attention.
She is sure
Today was “not that bad”
Brave face to the moon
She is sure
Another day will come
Soon enough.

Sometimes I cry silently beside you
But my tears burn loud like screams
Your ears are so hollow
Like my voice is shallow
I wonder if I’m talking in a dream
Because I don’t feel heard

My concerns bounce off the wall like an empty apartment
My worries shut away in a chest locked with a one of a kind key
Insecurities become secrets because only I listen to them

Hear me
Acknowledge me
Validate me

I’m drowning in your rebuttals
Your disregard seeps through my pores
I choke on your counter neglect

How do we continue on?

My perception of life allows insight into things that are often missed by others.

I choose to be silent, letting my written words say what takes my breath away.

I see the injustices, and relentless undertones. So many are inflicted by a hate that they have never had or known.

All for the sake of being different.

Looking away from a person who may have been born with deformities.
Blind, deaf or lame.
Even those who are impaired mentally.

There are times I burst into tears, but it’s not for me as much as it is for others.

Some consider me to be fragile or too sensitive, not grasping the burden it carries to care.

I feel crushed in return… getting a clearer picture of Yashua, connected by DNA, his blood running through my veins.

“But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.” Isaiah 53:5

Yes, Yashua is my brother, and God’s first Son.

I suspect for such an uncommon belief not to be received.

Saddened by the amount of misunderstanding of me it brings.

Aware of the way others look at me. Not so much about beauty, but this certain je ne sais quoi encountered by my presence.

Some have lashed out at me in hopes of a reaction, because I remain composed and calm during times of chaos.

I have been called the “quiet storm”.

Style Score 100%
(prior to final draft)

Dear Unsealed,
I do not know where to begin but I will begin to write as my subconscious dictates the story. I grew up when women did not have rights. Now in 2025 we are back to the same male patriarchal society. I felt very misunderstood throughout my whole life. As an empath and creative personality, I still feel misunderstood around judgmental people
I was led to believe that the man held authority over everything. Back in the fifties white male misogynist pigs dominated it. Now we are back to this same idiocrasy of white men wanting to dominate everyone and everything.
I, and other women were taught to get married, have three babies, buy a house, and serve your man cocktails when he gets home from work. Some households were extremely strict with their women. Women were not allowed to buy a house or buy a car until the 1970s. now we are back here again with white male dominance.
I was married at 20 for a brief period. The marriage was annulled due to incompatibility. The thoughts of some families were to marry their daughters off to a man to take care of them. If one is raised in this culture, you either accept it or rebel against the whit male patriarchy. I rebelled.
I am going to make this into a noticeably short story. My message to women of every culture do not let your man dominate you. Rebel against such nonsense. Men who want to control are very insecure and have severe mental issues of paranoia.
I would not have married the car race guy if my mom had not insisted, I needed to get married to fulfill her dream. I briefly accepted the mentality of that era. I was always in a fight or flight mode for many years.
I suggest to younger ladies do not succumb to the lunacy of a male patriarchal society.
My father was not like that. He wanted me to learn mechanical work. My mom was oh no I could not learn mechanics as I was prima donna girl. My dad and mom had an argument about that issue.
My philosophy is do not let anyone push you into marrying just to get married. Love is love. I am an ally of the LGBTQ people.
I now instruct people: we are one human being species with many cultures, ethnicities, languages, different skin pigmentation, and personalities.
What I learned through my years from 1949 to 2025 is do not let a man talk you into having his babies, especially if you just began to date. That is a red flag of dominance and how the misogynist sees your worth as a woman. I say block him on social media, refuse his phone calls, and ignore him if you see him out and about. Watch for red flags of narcissism in every relationship. If you are the narcissist then crumble the story, throw it away because a narcissist cannot change. If you are an empath, then stay as far away from the narcissist as you can. If you are not either of those personality types, then take heed to watch for red flags to prevent an abusive relationship.
My advice is to focus on your career, go to college, and refuse to acknowledge people who condescend you as a human being. Walk away from a future abusive relationship.
I was boy crazy at ten years old. I read teen magazines and idolized boys in the band. I matured young, as I began puberty at age ten. My advice to me would be to focus on writing for the teen magazine instead of being google eyed over the cuties in the band.
As of now I am 75 years old. I accepted a coffee date with an old guy. I told him someday soon. I have known him for two years. I want platonic relationships and at this age there is no intention of anything but friendship.
This concludes this short story, focusing on one aspect of my life among many others. I have a lot of stories to tell. I shall write them all one day. Perhaps I should include the X-rated too.
I have survived all those relationships as I have learned that I did not always make the right choices. As one grows up to maturity you learn to appreciate the times you made the correct choices and to always remember the consequences of making the wrong choices.

If you feel misunderstood, then analyze the situation or walk away.
Peace everyone!
Be yourself everyone!

Spoken word
I am heard
From paper to presence
Poetry has given me unlimited expression
I am free
Oh how I do love thee

To have no judgements
No expectations
Only speaking from my highest vibrations
I radiate my lungs
I embody every room in which I stand
Taking my audience on my journey with me
From ear to ear
Rather than hand to hand

To have aced every essay
To have read books in the summer
Who knew my calling was to be a poet or an author
No one shows you this is a feasible path
Discouraging you
Saying it’s impractical, unattainable
Only because they’ve never dreamed
of being outside an office or a cubicle
I won’t be naive, I won’t falter
Because for me this dream is anything but impossible

I love the way poetry makes me feel more myself
Every artist can tell you
It’s not for love of money
Not for approval or acceptance
With every note sung, brush stroke, or word spoke
We are emanating our deepest passions

We are the few unafraid to allow our hearts to shine through
To be vulnerable & bare
To conquer our fear of public speaking
Standing alone on this stage
Yet I don’t feel alone
Sharing my truth with others
Yet it’s safe
It feels like home

Cliché to say
But I’m thankful, grateful & blessed
I have found my passion
I withhold love for myself through my writing
& Perhaps call me old fashioned
But there’s nothing more sentimental
Than receiving a hand-written letter
Instead of this new age typing

It’s true paper will always beat rock
Because when my pen hits the paper
I fancy the way the ink glides
The world makes sense again
Writing letter by letter
Mastering my scribe
Curating every sentence
Every stanza
Every story with pride

My thoughts no longer jumbled
I can now see so clearly
I feel weightless
I feel untouchable
It has been my superpower for the world to hear me
Some people want to leave behind money or a legacy
For me—
I will have left my voice, my story

Oh poetry, I love & value thee
Thank you for being a safe place for me

Capturing the true essence of when

The love story began

I smile

Reminiscing on the rhymes

That made me laugh

Easy to create interesting patterns

Some so elementary

Yet so catchy

My words were my power

My emotions needed an outlet

My voice found a safe space

With each line

My love grew fonder

I felt more alive

Whenever I read my words

I was a bit surprised

A master in disguise

My pen was my secret weapon

The words I collectively gathered

Made me aware

That it wasn’t a mere coincidence

Once I started writing

I could never stop

Until I did for a brief period

When my mother passed away

I stumbled on a mental block

My passion had died

Until an angel came to rescue me

Reassuring me that I needed my own words

To revive me

My creativity had never left

I was lusting momentarily

But when my passion

Reminded me that the time was now

I knew that poetry was my true love

It definitely saved me!

You have always been here, haven’t you?
Soft, steady, waiting. Unnoticed but never absent.
You have known the weight of my body when I could not stand,
the nervous tug of sleeves over trembling fingers,
the hush of palms pressed against my chest,
as if you alone could keep my heart from breaking open.

You have held so much.
Tearstained pillows, quiet apologies, the ghosts of things I should have let go.
You have traced the spines of books that felt safer than people,
curled around the warmth of a teacup on nights that felt too long.
You have built and unbuilt—art, letters, love—
each stroke, each press, a silent rebellion against the fear of being forgotten.

And yet, I have not always been kind to you.
I have wrung you in worry, bitten you down to the bone,
clenched you into fists when all you wanted was to open.
I have blamed you for trembling,
when all you were trying to do was hold on.

But you—oh, you.
You never left me.
Even when I abandoned myself,
you turned doorknobs, signed my name, reached for the light.
Even in stillness, you moved. Even in silence, you spoke.

And here you are still,
writing these words,
building, reaching, proof that I have not stopped—
not really, not ever.

So I promise:
I will be gentler with you.
I will unclench, I will open, I will trust.
I will let you rest when you need to and create when you are ready.

You are not just my hands.
You are my history, my resilience,
the proof that I am still here.

And that is enough. That has always been enough.

My Dearest Communication,

From the moment I entered the world, before I could even form a word, you were there. The cries of a newborn, in the touch of a mother’s hand, in the unspoken language of your eyes, you made your presence known. you are not just a tool, not just a method, we are nothing without you. You are the silent force that moves the world, the unseen thread that weaves humanity together.

I have loved you in ways, I cannot describe, yet everytime I try, I realize that even the attempt itself is an act of loving you. You are the reason I exist with purpose, the force that allowsme to takethoughts from the depths of my mind and place them into the hearts of others. You are not just a speech, not just words on a page, you are an action, emotion, existence itself.

Everything I do, everything anyone does, begins and ends with you. A handshake, a glance, a carefully crafted letter, all of it is your expression. Without you, silence is not peace; it is a void. Without you, progress is not possible. What is leadership without words? What is love without expression? What is existence if not the constant exchange of signals, gestures, and messages that define our very nature?

You are not bound by sound, nor by sight, nor by language. You live in the subtlety of a raised eyebrow, in the rhythm of music, inthe blinking lights of technology speaking to one another. Every wave to a friend, every story passed down through generations, every revolution that has ever begun with the words, “enough is enough”, all of it is you.

You are the unseen architect of civilization. Without you, there are no laws, no literature, no connection between minds.

Every invention that has ever changes the world, started with you. A scientist speakes to his ideas before he builds. A writer listens to his soul before he creates. A lover whispers before they embrace. Everything begins with you.

And that is why I love you. Not because you merely exist but because you are existence , itself. You are the greatest power we have ever known.

So, I dedicate my life to you. Not just as a speaker, a writer, a thinker, but as someone who understands that without you, I am nothing.

With All My Heart,

William Joseph