poetry
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I didn’t quit because I stopped needing it. I quit because tiny hands needed me more. There are nights when sleep still hides, when food still tastes like cardboard, when anxiety paces the hallway inside my mind. And sometimes I remember the little green flower that once taught my lungs how to breathe again. But…
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The sky begins with whispered threats,A bruise beneath the summer blue.The prairie holds its quiet breath,As if it somehow always knew. The wheat bows low before the wind,The poplars shiver, leaves turned white.Far away, a rumble rolls—The heartbeat of the coming night. Then heaven tears itself apart,Silver veins across the sky.Thunder shakes the windows loose,A…
Between Bruises and Blooms 