Shadows Hide Under the Sun

Shadows Hide Under the Sun

Shadows hide under the sun, quiet as secrets that refuse to die.

Even in the brightest heat, they cling to the edges, curling around truth like a warning.

Light doesn’t erase darkness— it only shows where it’s been waiting.

slipping beneath the glow as if warmth alone could make them harmless.

But even noon has corners, and even joy has places it won’t touch.

Still, I walk forward, letting the light fall where it may, unafraid of what follows behind me.

The Words That Could Undo Us

The words you carry are heavier than the night.

I see the storm gathering behind your teeth,

the lightning of a truth you’re afraid to release.

Hold it a moment longer— let the world stay still before your voice reshapes it.

For even silence has its own pulse.

The air between us is thick with meaning, a thread pulled tight but not yet broken.

Some truths are more powerful when they hover unspoken— warm as breath, sharp as longing.

Part not thou lips,

Part not thou lips, for I can hear the truth before it’s spoken.

The breath you hold trembles against the silence, a confession waiting to break its own chains.

Let the moment stay whole— unbroken, unruined, a fragile truth balanced on the edge of your mouth.

Full Circle

It came back

like a storm we swore we’d outgrown,

a shadow stretching

from wounds we never let heal.

The circle tightens—

old words in new mouths,

old fears in new clothes,

old lines redrawn

as if time never learned its lesson.

But every return

reveals the truth  missed before:

a circle can be broken

the moment someone refuses

to walk it again.

 The wheel turns,

slow and grinding,

pulling yesterday’s ghosts

into today’s light.

The pattern repeats—

the same cracks in the foundation,

the same weight on the same shoulders,

the same silence

where justice should speak.

 It comes back around—

the prejudice,

the power games,

the quiet cruelty dressed as order.

History did...

“I’m Forced to Be What They See”

They hand me a mask

and call it my face,

pressing it tight

like I was born wearing it.

They script my lines

before I open my mouth,

then act surprised

when I tear the page in half.

I am not their shorthand,

their shortcut,

their story told in one word.

I am the whole sky —

and they keep trying

to fold me into a box.

They carve a silhouette

and swear it’s my reflection,

never noticing

how the edges don’t fit.

I walk with the  weight

of names I never chose,

shadows I never cast,

stories I never lived.

 Still, I rise in my own outline,

soft where they expect steel,

wild where they expect calm,

true where they expect myth.

I am not the mold

they keep pressing me into.

I am the hand...

What’s the “Tea”?

The truth you sip slow,

the rumor you stir twice,

the heat that fogs the glass

before the words even land.

Some stories don’t spill—

they steam.

 The kind that burns tongues

and exposes intentions.

The kind whispered in corners

but felt in the room.

Say it plain—

truth tastes better

when it’s not watered down.

 What’s the “Tea”?

A quiet pour of honesty,

warm and unhurried.

A confession wrapped in steam,

floating between us

like a secret deciding

whether to be spoken.

Voodoo Palms

Under the voodoo palms,

the air hums with secrets—

old magic curling like smoke

around the roots.

Every breeze is a whisper,

every shadow a warning,

every heartbeat a drum

calling something ancient

back to life.

Voodoo palms don’t just sway—

they watch.

They hold the heat,

the hush,

the half?truths you tried to bury.

Step beneath them

and the night leans in,

asking what you came to conjure

and what you’re ready to lose.

Fire Under the Bridge

There’s fire under the bridge— not the kind that burns it down, but the kind that whispers, “I’m not finished.” Heat in the hush, anger with a pulse, truth that crawls back up your spine and dares you to cross anyway.

Framed in Shadows I Never Cast

They tried to shape my story

from the grain of their own assumptions,

carving silhouettes in dark tones

and calling them truth.

 But I am not the shadow they sketched in haste.

I am the warm weight of sun?washed stone,

the steady pulse of earth beneath bare feet,

the quiet glow of something real.

  Their whispers never fit my edges.

Their frames were too small, too brittle,

too far from the texture of my becoming.

 I rise from their outlines

like light slipping through cedar branches—

soft, certain, uncontained.

 I walk in colors they never bothered to see,

in a brightness they could not name,

crafted from my own hands,

my own history,

my own truth.

 Let them keep their shadows.

I am made of something older,

something honest,

so...

Where’s Your Witness

Where’s your witness…

when the truth sits heavy

and the room grows still?

 Who saw the way you carried it,

the weight no one named,

the strength you never claimed aloud?

 Sometimes the only witness

is the echo of your own heartbeat—

steady, certain,

refusing to lie…

Where’s Your Witness...

when life carves its marks into you—

soft grooves, deep lines,

stories etched like grain in wood?

Maybe it’s the wind that knows,

or the ground beneath your feet,

or the quiet spirit inside you

that’s been keeping score

since the beginning.<...