Hold your head high and stand tall, no matter the storms around you. Ignore the noise, the doubt, the negativity—none of it defines you. Breathe deeply, let the weight of yesterday fade, and fill your spirit with the light of possibility.

Place your hand over your heart and feel its steady rhythm—proof that you are here, that you are chosen, that you are blessed.

This moment is a gift, another chance to step boldly into your purpose. No setback, no obstacle, no pain can take away what is meant for you. Walk forward with courage, knowing that every breath you take is an opportunity to rewrite your story, to rise, to shine, and to claim the life you deserve.

You are unstoppable. You are divine. Keep moving forward, Queen!

Grief is a kingdom you never ask to rule.
A place with no stars, no dawn to break.
Endless night.
A place where echoes live longer than voices,
where shadows wear the faces you’ve lost—
but never quite get them right.

It crowns you in silence,
wraps its cloak around your ribs,
tightens until your breath comes in fractured whispers.

I thought I was ready.
I told myself time was mercy—
that knowing would soften the blow.
But grief doesn’t strike like lightning.
It seeps in slowly, like poison in your veins,
until one day you’re gasping,
and you don’t even remember what air felt like.

I try to remember her laugh—
but it’s like chasing smoke.
Somewhere in my mind,
her smile is fading at the edges.
Her voice, just a ghost of a ghost.

I keep pictures tucked away in drawers.
I can’t look at them for too long.
Each glance is a wound,
each memory a blade turning slow beneath my ribs.
But without them, she slips further from me.
I am caught between needing to remember
and not being able to survive it.

How cruel it is—
to lose her twice.
Once to death, and again to time.

My son was born after she left.
A few fractured weeks between his first breath
and the silence she became.
His due date was her birthday.
As if the universe thought irony was a kindness.

Since I was 18,
I have been carving out a life with trembling hands,
mistaking silence for strength,
mistaking independence for survival.
But I was wrong.

Strength is standing in the ruin
and naming every piece.
It is saying:
This hurt.
This still hurts.
It is learning to breathe in the dark.

They don’t tell you how grief is a thief—
how it steals the good with the bad.
How every sweet memory is chased by regret.
How every second of love feels borrowed.
How guilt hangs on your shoulders like a cloak
you can’t remove.

I should have stayed longer.
I should have loved louder.
I should have grown up faster,
instead of pretending I had all the time in the world.

I still don’t know how to carry this.
Most days, I bury it beneath busy hands and silence.
But it always finds me—
in the quiet, in the stillness,
in the moments when her name rises to my lips
but never makes it past my teeth.

Grief is a kingdom,
and I am its prisoner.
There are no windows, no keys, no doors.
Only the ghosts of what could have been
and the weight of everything I didn’t say.

And yet somehow,
even in this shadowland,
I am still searching for light.

What does it mean to have your dreams come true? I’m from a small town and my entire life I have heard “you can’t.” “You’re from a small town, it’s impossible.” Well, I am here to tell you, it is possible. If you were to ask any 10 people on the street, they would say “I wish I had chased my dreams when I was younger.” Everything has its own way of happening on its own time. And I am living proof. My first novel will be published on May 18th of this year, I have began to sing in public again after several years, I have someone who loves me for me and doesn’t look at me like an object and my family has seen my smile returned to me. Thank you The Unsealed for helping me achieve my writing dreams and I can’t wait to see what happens next!

Hush now child, we are going on a journey.
We will be free from turmoil on our home soil.
We will seek asylum in the land of the free,
No worries of war in our far away home.

The waves may rise, the winds may howl,
But hold my hand, we’ll make it somehow.
Through deserts, through forests, we walk unseen,
Chasing the promise of a brighter dream.

Hush now child, don’t cry from the cold,
The road is hard, but our hearts are bold.
The stars above guide our weary souls,
Through shadows and doubt, we chase our goals.

They call it freedom, they call it hope,
A place where we’re given a chance to cope.
But oh, the cost, the burdens we bear,
Strangers in a land that may not care.

Hush now child, keep your head held high,
Even if the questions start to pry.
“Why are you here? What do you seek?”
They don’t see the strength in the tired and meek.

We carry the weight of our stories untold,
Of villages burned, of nights so cold.
Yet still, we rise, through fear and disdain,
Planting new roots in soil laced with pain.

Hush now child, for someday they’ll see,
Our struggle, our fight, our legacy.
We build with hope, with tears, with love,
For a future we dream, as vast as the skies above.

The moment they thought DEI meant Black or queer,
was the moment they lost the war,
so far removed from the struggle,
like history ain’t at their door.

They forget—
they were once as poor,
if not standing beside us, knee-deep in the same war.
Before race, there was class,
before color, there was caste,
yet the blame never lands
on the hands that built the past.

The structure was forged with intent,
inequality chiseled in stone.
Yet the victims bear the weight—
never the architects on their thrones.

We ain’t choose to be here,
displaced, discarded, denied.
And the land? It was never theirs to give,
yet they legislate stolen soil with pride.

And now, the world shakes,
coups play out in real-time,
yet we watch—numb, scrolling,
like history don’t rhyme.

There is no ethical billionaire,
only loopholes and ledgers,
only tax cuts dressed as charity,
only wealth hoarded in hidden treasures.

To be ethical is to see,
to hold every class in your care.
But justice ain’t profitable,
so tell me—who’s really aware?

So last year my mom was diagnosed with AML and immediately our lives changed instantly, we quit looking at 6 months from now and were thankful for the moment, we still planned ahead but new anything could happen, well Thanksgiving came and noticed my mom wasn’t acting like MY MOM, we had planned a Special Thanksgiving with homemade egg rolls and she was sleeping a lot, well we were praying and Trusting God and on Dec 15th we would take her to the hospital.The doctor told us her instines were twisted and asked if the cancer was being treated our hearts sank, We were planning on spending Christmas with my mom, but the 17th of December I had to sign a DNC for my mom, Everyday I spent with my mom was short.Dec 22nd she would pass away.I spend Christmas eve getting her grave site ready, Im STUNNED at what happened.We now cherish EVERY DAY and WILL MAKE HER PROUD.

feb 3
a journal on pursuit.
what if you did? what if you just kept going? what if that dream of yours wasn’t actually too big? that things start aligning, making sense. what if? most people look at what if in a negative light but what if something fucking incredible happened? what if you do in the future, in this moment, for the future? instead of the reminiscent ‘what if’, the optimistic version. perhaps there is no negative outcome of the pursuit of anything. as even failure has its benefits. even failure is a step towards achievement. as some movement is better than none at all. even when its redirection. even when it feels like the world is rejecting you, you are still on the path you are meant to be on, as long as that dream of yours goes nowhere.

truly, I believe everyone has desires deep within them that will never go anywhere. no matter if you try to supplement this desire by something arguably more ‘realistic’, it will never go away. nothing can ever scratch the itch of a dream you have except the pursuit of said dream itself. the more you hesitate, the more you cast fear and doubt on this dream, the farther it will feel. yet the stronger pull you have towards it. the more you tell yourself it isn’t possible, that it’s stupid to think you could have that, the more you will create a pull towards it. so why suppress it? why spend a life going after things you don’t truly want in hopes your truest desires will be fulfilled through supplementation?

most people say they wanted to be something, and decided otherwise as it didn’t seem practical. those people are not truly happy or fulfilled in what they chose to do instead. they are living a life of phony, of pretend. the active decision to not pursue their truest self. how can you argue with your own truth? as if your soul doesn’t reveal its own truth, but your mind will for it?

for years, I could feel exactly in my soul what I wanted out of life. I wished to be aloof in a beautiful way, out in the world, authentically, organically connecting with people of all origins and finding a way to impact communities globally. I always wanted to be a famous writer. to spend as much time as possible creating. I’ve always had an adventure spirit, and a creative mind. I’ve always had a fear or not seeing enough, experiencing enough, meeting enough people, creating enough memories. since I was young, fomo has kept me up at night. the fear of missing out. my parents would always tell me, “the day is over, you can do more tomorrow.” but that answer never silenced the desire in my brain to do as much as I could. I’ve always been so hungry for life. it has always came naturally to want more, to challenge each day, to search for beauty in every single day.

admittedly, I have spent a lot of time pursuing other passions, hoping that my truest passion would go away on its own. how foolish of me. to silence my own voice. to suppress my own purpose and wonder why I cannot find purpose elsewhere? that nothing else in the world has felt like I’m meant to do it, makes sense why now. I thought I wouldn’t be able to be out in the world on my own, so instead I got a job to travel and make money doing that, which sounds ideal. but it doesn’t scratch the itch enough. it isn’t enough. it is not the authentic, organic, traveling I am craving. and it will never be enough no matter how many times I try to tell myself that is the only way I’ll be capable of what I want to do, an easier way out of what I actually want to be out in the world doing. I have always written, but have always put it on the backburner. I have always told myself that it isn’t good enough, that in no way could I be a successful poet, writer, on my own. that I had to have a normal job and it could always just be a passion on the side.

but these thoughts consume me.

these passions consume me.
that’s how I know they are meant to be pursued relentlessly. no matter what I try to do instead, there will always be a nagging voice in the back of my mind containing my truth, begging for my acknowledgment. begging for my honest effort, and full effort towards it. as nothing will work out for me until I am on the path of truth. the versions of me that has tried to suppress my truth are the versions of me that keeps feeling rejection from the universe in different forms.

so, that feeling, urge, deep in your soul will never go away. trust it. respect it. chase it. spend your life not only in acknowledgement of it, but in pursuit of it.

The couch. I bought the big leather couch, chair, and ottoman back in 1999 or 2000 I think. I was working on the boats at the time. Had a few boatguy friends that would come right before or right after season to hang out… some pretty big guys. I bought the big furniture in a time when you could get that set for $1500 I think. And it was built to last. I still can’t believe how well it was made compared to what you get now for the same price.

A crush and my brother helped me get it into the house..and it wasn’t easy.
When my ex and I bought this house it wasn’t any easier getting it in here.

Last Spring I tried to get it out of here by myself and quickly realized I might die trying. While it was still standing on end from my attempt at finagling it out the door, I cut out the material on the bottom and saw the bones of it… it was beautiful.. real wood, lots of it… straps were as high quality as the best ratchet straps of today. The springs across the bottom were thick and solid. I cut open the one cushion that had finally broke down, and those springs too, were heavy duty. I ordered a replacement spring pack, which was much lighter built than the original I found, not the old, solid, barely squash support of 25 years ago. I took an awl and sewed the leather back together. I bought a slip cover (pretty nice one) thinking, I could rescue this couch, build it back better and not just toss it away.

As time went by, I just couldn’t sit on it. It sat empty. It looked better on the outside, but it sat like a big ass sad emblem of itself. And it had been ruined from the inside, of another who defiled it.

Gone were the multiple big asses that sat on it, at times slept on it. Gone were the dogs that had curled up on it, scratching it ever so slightly with their paws. Gone were the times I could curl my feet under me, or lay across it with my head in another’s lap watching yet another hunting show…or even better, Walking Dead.

I had hinted to others that I wanted it out, for the past 9 or so months. No one took the hint. I think some things are just meant to be done on your own. So the other night….

I cut it’s coverings off… razor to leather… the leather on couches from back then was much better, thicker, more like hide. Cut out enough foam to get to those nice big chunks of wood that were it’s frame with the skillsaw. Cut it into two manageable pieces… scooted it out the door (still had to get the right angle to make it happen).. pushed it down the stairs, and dragged it to the the far end of the yard.

As I poured some expired peanut oil on it, and put a couple of dry pieces of wood in a cardboard box in the middle of it to get it started…. a sadness engulfed me… as the fire would soon engulf the couch. I had started this with anger, but it ended with grief. Like for real grief.

As I watched that fire (I couldnt believe how fast it went up), the last 24 years of time with this couch went through me.. along with the 21 years with him….it still took a couple of hours to realize that it was just time for it to go, and for me to let go of the idea that I had made it better, built it back better, and to let go of the idea that I could ever sit on it in comfort again.

It was grief.

Then, today someone mentioned to me that I had burnt a couch on the evening of the Super Moon. So there’s that.